


The Boy Who Lived (To Not Be a Boy)

by TheLightFury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And they're kind of sarcastic, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bickering, Child Abuse, Coming Out, Draco Malfoy Flirts, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Harry Potter, Not body dysphoria, Oblivious Harry, Oblivious Harry Potter, Other, PTSD nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Discovery, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Hermione Granger, Supportive Ron Weasley, but not often, gender euphoria, supportive everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: It was ridiculous. It was pathetic. And he was sure that it shouldn’t bother him as much.But it did.And it was getting worse.As Malfoy smirked, Harry felt his final nerve snap."How's the boy who—"“—DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Then, as Draco blinked in surprise, he continued. "It’s just not me!”Malfoy frowned."So what are you, Potter?And wasn't that the question...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 140
Kudos: 740
Collections: HP TransFest 2020, Marry Me Please





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt 'Harry has always hated being called boy, and slowly comes to realise that it's not just memories of Uncle Vernon's tone but the whole concept of being a 'he' that hurts', and boy did it run away from me. What started as a 2k drabble idea has just evolved, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it! Now down to the honourable mentions!
> 
> Firstly, I absolutely have to say give a massive thanks to the mods who have done an INCREDIBLE job with this fest. It's been amazingly fun, the support has been wonderful, and the entire atmosphere has been really chill and lovely. So thanks guys! 
> 
> Secondly, to my alpha/sensitivity reader/beta M: THANK YOU YOU MARVELOUS STAR! I adored your screaming, valued your feedback so much, and bounced in my seat far more times than you know just watching you read your favourite parts. I literally cannot thank you enough for all the hard work you did (and in such a short time-span, oops, sorry!), you were literally a lifesaver and made all the stress of this fic SO much better! <3
> 
> To my other beta and alpha E: You, my love, were FABULOUS. You swooped in to save me at the last minute, working tirelessly on my disaster of a fic, making me laugh with your comments *so much* and challenging me to be a better writer. I cannot thank you enough for everything you did, you were utterly fantastic! <3
> 
> And last but not least, to my sensitivity reader E: Thank you SO MUCH for jumping in at the last minute! Your insights and comments were just SO, INCREDIBLY helpful, you have NO idea how much I valued them, and I really hope you like the way it turned out! <3
> 
> Finally, to the prompter: I sincerely hope you like the way this turned out. Thank you for such a gorgeous idea, I literally saw this and gasped in delight, this was exactly the type of content I wanted to see in the prompts! Hope you enjoy!!!!
> 
> Any errors that you see in this work are mine and mine alone! <3

As Hermione quickly flicked her wand at a point just outside of Harry’s vision, her stony glare strengthening the  _ Incendio  _ she cast, his heart sank. That look could only mean one thing: she’d found another one. 

Another headline. About him. The Boy Who Lived Twice. The Chosen Boy. The World’s Most Eligible Bachelor Boy. The Boy Hero. The one stupid teenager in the whole damn world that, for some reason,  _ everyone  _ needed to know about.

They were everywhere. All the time. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, somehow, more appeared—documenting his every move, asking how he was going to cope with his fame now that he “didn’t have a purpose because he’d saved everyone”, or simply encouraging fans to send thanks to him. 

And it was overwhelming. 

He’d known—of  _ course  _ he’d known—that life was going to be crazy the moment he finally killed the lunatic. He’d known he’d have no privacy, that he’d be thanked at every corner, and that his face and name would be everywhere. But he hadn’t expected it to feel like… This… Every time another headline caught his eye—no matter how ridiculous or even laughable it was—it was like an inch of his lungs shut down; like another glass of water was shoved the wrong way down his throat; like a belt around his chest tightened again. Sometimes he could barely breathe at all. 

He’d hoped it would get better when he got back to Hogwarts, where interviewers couldn’t get as much information on him, and where he’d be protected by the school wards and McGonagall’s stern glare, but still, for the first few weeks, no matter how many detentions professors doled out, or how many spells they tried to cast, he’d been mobbed at every corner, forced under his Invisibility Cloak just to get to lessons, and basically had to set up personal wards just so he could eat in the Great Hall. Even now, months later, he still couldn’t get through a single day without seeing his picture splayed across a paper somewhere. Unfortunately, journalists paid poor students far too well for his privacy to be fully protected.

It was ridiculous. It was pathetic. And he was sure that it shouldn’t bother him as much as it still did. It was almost the end of _October_ , for pity’s sake!

But it did.

It was just so  _ wrong.  _ He was just one person out of hundreds—no,  _ thousands _ —to fight against the snake-faced twat! Why did they all need to focus on  _ him?  _ Why weren’t they giving Neville some credit for killing Nagini? Or Lee Jordan for hosting Potterwatch and boosting everyone’s morale? Or McGonagall and Aberforth for keeping all the students safe for the entire year when the Carrows were  _ terrorising the fucking school?!  _ Why were they all focusing on the kid who cast  _ one bloody disarming charm,  _ just because it made mouldy-Voldy’s spell rebound? And  _ why the fuck  _ did killing the prick mean everyone had the right to try and violate his privacy?! It was mental what people were willing to do to get any kind of information on him—he’d found a listening charm embedded in the wrapper of a chocolate frog, for fuck’s sake—but somehow, despite the fact things were technically getting better, given that his post was usually unhexed, love-potion free, and only tall enough to bury the smallest of First Years nowadays, the effect all the attention was having on him was getting worse. 

He didn’t notice it at first; not really. He knew he was a bit more irritated than usual, and Ron and Hermione were giving him a slightly wider berth at times, but he just put it down to the extra stress of their N.E.W.T. workload, or the fact that a particularly stupid headline had caught his eye—seriously, who the _fuck_ was dumb enough to believe that he’d been found weeping with joy over all his presents from his admirers?! How was _The_ _Prophet_ still in business?! But then, his friends started exchanging looks when he started ranting about the reader's stupidity. And then, every time he saw his name splashed across a front page, he got so angry he couldn’t talk to anyone without ripping their head off. Finally, one night, as his dorm-mates snored in blissful oblivion, he was left panting and shaking in bed, the full weight of the situation pressing like a tonne of bricks in his chest. 

Nightmares had always been normal for him—how could they not be when a megalomaniac had a direct line into his mind?—but even so, somehow, every once in a while, they managed to surprise him. Whether it was because he was more stressed than normal, or because he’d had a particularly triggering conversation, or just because his stupid brain decided he hadn’t been tortured enough, every now and then, they came. Awful nightmares—no, night  _ terrors.  _ After each one, he’d wake up, gasping, shivering, shaking, feeling as though a Boggart had literally inhabited his soul and tortured him. 

On those nights, scenes of Ron, Hermione, or McGonagall standing stock still plagued his mind as Voldemort paced slowly, malevolently in front of them. They stared in horror, barely breathing, as he raised his wand, unleashed a violent flash of green, and sent their bodies crumpling to the floor. Or sometimes, scenes of Sirius looming over him in disgust, blaming him for his death, calling him stupid, selfish, and reckless swirled in his mind. As Harry cowered, praying for relief, his godfather always sneered in loathing, practically spat in his face, and then turned away, ignoring all his begs and pleads for forgiveness. But worse still was when he relived dark scenes where he could see nothing, feel nothing, _do_ nothing, but hear every syllable, every ounce of pain in a child’s voice as he cried, loudly, desperately, heartbreakingly, for his mumma. His mumma who would never come. Never smile at her son again. Never hold him close. Just because he couldn’t kill Voldemort before he got to her… 

No matter how many times they visited, or how long he spent down by the fire after a terror, whenever he was haunted by those nightmares, Harry’s heart raced for hours afterwards without fail, stole sleep from him for the rest of the night, and flooded his every fibre with guilt, grief, and regret for days afterwards. Unshakeable. Unforgiving.  _ Unbearable.  _ But of course, he tried to hide it, denied it if his friends questioned anything, and just tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault… But it wasn’t easy. Especially when there were gaps in the tables in the Great Hall where students used to be… 

Eventually, however, with Ron pushing some extra slices of treacle tart his way, and Hermione and Luna giving him “random” hugs, the cold, clawing grip of the nightmares would loosen, and a few days later it was like they’d never happened. But after this particular nightmare, he wasn’t so sure the feeling would fade as easily. 

Sleep had come easily after a long day of rants from Hermione about studying, head numbing books, confusing lessons, and a good stint on the Quidditch pitch, but after what felt like just a few minutes, the comforting ocean of warm darkness morphed around him, ensnaring him. Suddenly, walls sprang up around him, cutting off every escape route, every exit, and in the next breath, newspapers had fluttered into existence around him, hundreds—no, thousands of them—each one emblazoned with his own face. As another stupid headline screamed at him, the belt around his chest tightened once more. 

_ 10 TIPS TO WINNING THE BOY WHO LIVED’S HEART! _

_ ‘It’s just a headline, calm down, it’s okay, it’s just a stupid headline,’  _ he chanted, fighting the urge to gasp for breath. But as picture-Harry flashed a flirty, cocky grin and winked, sending shivers down his spine, he couldn’t stop his heart rate spiralling out of control. 

It was just so _wrong._ He didn’t flirt! Or—or wink! And he definitely didn’t look like _that!_

Somehow, picture-Harry had been edited—enhanced, even. No longer was he thin from months of starvation, or clean-shaven, as he prefered to be. No, this time he was…  _ Muscular…  _ His jaw was chiseled, his cheekbones were well defined, and there was definite…  _ shape  _ to his shoulders! And—and he had a  _ beard!  _ And shorter hair! And his glasses didn’t look… Reedy, anymore, but, rather… Classy… Handsome almost... No,  _ really  _ handsome, in fact! The kind of handsome that kids  _ dreamed  _ of being… But as picture-Harry grinned once more, Harry’s stomach revolted, bile rising in his throat as he fought for breath once more. 

“That’s not me!” he yelled, though no sound came out, desperation flooding through him as another wink shot his way. 

“Stop it!” he screamed again. But as his lungs ached and picture-Harry only seemed to come closer, suddenly an ugly purple face loomed above him. 

Vernon Dursley. 

“No,” he barely breathed as the all too familiar lip curled in disgust, absolute horror flying through every fibre of his being. “You can’t be here, you don’t know where I am, you don’t  _ care  _ about me! You’re not supposed to—”

“—‘Supposed to’  _ what _ , Boy?” his uncle boomed, evil eyes glinting in satisfaction as he failed to suppress a flinch at his old name. “Let you cavort about with your—with your  _ freaks _ ? And convince them that you’re  _ worth something?  _ Ha! It was obvious they were brainless buffoons, but I never thought I’d see the day…” he stared in revulsion at the headline.“‘Win your heart’?” he scoffed, giving a sneer Lucius Malfoy himself would have been proud of, before bearing down on him, nose less than an inch from Harry’s. “What stories have you been telling them,  _ Boy _ ?” 

“I haven’t!” Harry yelled, fury and terror pumping through his veins in equal measure, as the purple vein pulsed dangerously in Vernon’s forehead.

“Don’t lie to me, Boy!” a purple finger was shoved in his face. “Don’t you know your place? Don’t you know the meaning of respect? How  _ dare  _ you talk to me like that! You’re nothing but a  _ freak!  _ An orphan of two stupid teenagers! An afterthought—a  _ burden!  _ Dumped on a family cursed to deal with you for other people’s idiotic mistakes!” 

“I know all of your tricks; I know exactly what you are, _Boy.”_ Harry’s stomach revolted again, gritting his teeth as his uncle raged on. “You deserve a year in that cupboard we were stupid enough to allow you out of! A whole year to think about all the sacrifices we made! Of how you made our lives almost insufferable simply by breathing! And especially, of how disgusting and stupid you really are, Boy! Mark my words, one day you’ll regret this, Boy! I’ll make sure of it!” 

“It’s not my fault!” he tried to protest, as his uncle’s beady eyes bored into him. “I didn’t want this! I hate it!”

But Vernon merely scoffed and snarled, face turning a deeper shade of puce as the vein throbbed so rapidly he was sure it was going to pop. 

“I mean it! I just want it to stop! I want them to leave me alone!” he cried. 

But it was no use. 

“You’re stupid,  _ boy,”  _ his uncle raged, spit flying to cover Harry’s face as the man advanced impossibly closer, on a roll once more. “You’re stupid and pathetic and a waste of space. A drain on society! A good-for-nothing liar! You deserve to be strung up by your ankles! To be forced to work in the workhouses so you finally appreciate just how good you had things,  _ boy. _ But you think you’re too good for that, don’t you? With your ridiculous  _ magic” _ —he spat the word—“And your disgusting stick! You think you’re so much better than everyone else, but one of these days, Boy, you’re going to end up just like your parents! Blown to smithereens because of—

“Don’t talk about my parents!” he yelled, fury boiling through him as the urge to leave, to punch his  _ stupid  _ uncle’s face, to just scream at him until the pathetic excuse of a man  _ finally _ shut up, surged through him. But of course, he couldn’t; he could only stand, fuming, as Vernon roared at him again.

“I’ll talk about your parents however I damn well want, Boy! They were idiots! Stupid, and foolish, and the world is better off without them! You deserve them, Boy,  _ deserve  _ their fate. It would be a gift to all of us—to the entire world!  _ That’s  _ how you’d win  _ their  _ hearts!” He jabbed a finger at the newspapers again. “And you’ll be begging for it soon, Boy, I’ll make sure of it. Do you hear me Boy? DO YOU HEAR ME?! COME HERE!”

Without warning, Vernon lunged for him, hands swatting desperately, clutching for his hair, his shirt, his arms, anything he could reach, the same furious fire raging in his eyes as Harry leapt out of the way, barely escaping his uncle’s grasp. 

“Get here, Boy!”

“No! Gerroff me!” 

“I’ll get you!”

“Stop it!”

“COME HERE, BOY!”

“NO!” Harry yelled. But as the hazy blurs of his four poster bed swam into view, and the odd snores of his roommates reached him, all of a sudden, the face was gone, the walls were newspaper free, and the awful headline was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, whispers of hands trying to claw at him ran over his skin, his heart thumped painfully in his chest, and Vernon’s voice echoed in his mind, repeating one word, over, and over, and over again.

_ Boy.  _

He panted, trying to slow his breathing down. He peeled the sweaty t-shirt from his skin, and he focused on the sounds of his dorm-mates in an attempt to ground himself, but still, his heart raced. Every time it would slow—even just minutely—the voice screamed it at him again. Every time he managed to take a deeper, steadier breath, his face would appear, snarling it, and he’d gasp once more. Every time he managed to clear his mind and focus on getting to the warmth of the fire with a cool glass of water, it reverberated in his mind, trapping him in the darkness of his bed. And for the first time in absolute years, Harry found himself back in the cupboard, shaking, starving, and scared shitless. 

After years of abuse, years of  _ abuse,  _ of fighting, of screaming, of taking the punches, finally he’d managed to break free and conquer the fear his uncle had so desperately tried to instill in him; he’d managed to stand up for himself. No longer was he the boy who cowered in the corner, weeping over new burns, new bruises, and new insults. No longer was he the weak reed who flinched at every fast movement, every ball that came his way, every rattle of a belt. No, he was stronger, more confident—able to act like he didn’t give a flying fuck what they did, and most importantly, fight back. 

Until now. 

Now, after just one stupid nightmare. It had left him quivering, wide-eyed, and terrified once more in the dark, just like his weak, helpless, four-year-old self, unable to move or rest even as the sun began to rise. Even as the dorm came to life around him. Even as Ron pulled the curtains back and told him it was time to get up. Even as normality continued around him throughout the day. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, how many conversations he threw himself into to try and forget, every time he reached for something at breakfast, his Uncle’s voice screamed at him. Every time he saw a cobweb, he was transported back to the cupboard. Every time he heard someone laugh, the smug snarl of Vernon’s ugly lips swam before his eyes. And every time someone used the word ‘boy’, the urge to simultaneously explode and disintegrate on the spot flooded through him. 

But, somehow, with a firm hand on his shoulder from Ron, some terrible jokes from Seamus, and a nice talk with Luna about Wimpledinks, he managed to get through almost the entire day without hexing anyone, or giving  _ The Prophet _ a reason to call him deranged again—and that was a testament to how amazing his friends were if ever anyone needed one. When another Howler of appreciation managed to slip through the school wards during dinner in the Great Hall, however, touting about how he was like a real-life Boy Wonder, and  _ The Prophet  _ should call him that in their next headline, his final shred of sanity snapped. 

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” he muttered darkly, as his friends all tried—albeit unsuccessfully—to destroy the still-blathering Howler. 

“Want us to come with?” Ron offered, firing off a particularly nasty hex that did absolutely fuck-all to the red envelope.

“Thanks, but no. I just want to be alone.” 

“Go, we’ll take care of this _ —Baubillius!”  _ Hermione cried, growling as the Howler dodged the bolt of white light. He didn’t need telling twice. 

In less than thirty seconds he was walking—well, marching, more like—blindly. Out through the heavy doors, over the grassy grounds, towards the Quidditch pitch, around it, past the border of the Forbidden Forest, back past the greenhouses, back up the slopes towards the school, and finally, back down to the Great Lake. As soft waves gently rippled over the surface, curled by the sharp autumn wind, and the final rays of sunshine danced on them, at last, the final dregs of adrenaline fled. Flopping onto the sand, still pissed off but too exhausted to do anything about it, he sighed, letting his gaze rest on the calm water, and the whispers of wind quiet his mind. 

That was, of course, until a familiar drawl from his left made him jump out of his skin.

“Fancy finding you here, Potter.”

Whirling around—though he didn’t need to, he’d recognise that voice anywhere—Harry found Draco Malfoy leaning against one of the trees nonchalantly, an expression of practiced boredom on his face. And though they hadn’t argued once since being back at Hogwarts—had actually been friendly, in fact—still Harry’s heart sank further in his chest, wondering if he’d ever be able to catch a break.

“Shove off, Malfoy, please?” he muttered, turning back to the water and drawing his knees up to his chest. “I’m not in the mood today.” 

“Ooh, not in the mood, are we?” Malfoy imitated him in a stupid high pitched voice that did nothing but grate on his nerves. “How sorry I am to offend you,  _ oh Saviour _ .” As Malfoy dropped to a low, extravagant bow, before sauntering closer and picking up pebbles to skim on the surface, Harry barely resisted the urge to throw a rock at the wanker’s head. 

“Really, Potter. I thought we were past the days of hating each other,” he murmured, effortlessly sending stone after stone along the water’s surface. “Or have you decided you can’t both brood and be friendly to me? Is that too much for your little scarred head to handle?” 

But despite the challenge in his tone, and the cocky eyebrow raise just begging for a reaction, Harry couldn’t find the energy to take the bait.

“Just fuck off, Malfoy…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched his old nemesis frown.

“Come on, Potter. Things can’t be  _ that  _ bad for the Boy Who—”

“—DON’T CALL ME THAT!” 

Instantly, fury, hot and blinding, hurtled through him, untameable, hungry, and vicious. As he sprung to his feet, he watched as Malfoy’s Adam's apple bobbed, as Malfoy nervously licked his lips. Jaw still set, Harry panted, slowly noticing the weight of his wand in his hand, the tip of it pointing directly at Malfoy’s throat. And then, as he took in the wary silver eyes once more, instantly, all the anger fled. 

“Shit,” he whispered, arm dropping as he raked his other hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t—I—I didn’t… _Fuck_ , I’m sorry…” 

As another gentle breeze rustled through the leaves around them, Harry hastily made to retreat back up towards the castle, unable to look at the expression on Malfoy’s face a moment longer. He hadn’t managed three steps, however, before a hoarse voice stopped him.

“Wait.” 

Heart still pounding, he paused, tentatively looking over his shoulder. Behind him, Malfoy stood frozen mid-step, shock written all over his face, as if he hadn’t expected to say that out loud. But as Harry waited, he made no move to say anything else. 

The wind whistled past them, chilling, biting even, telling him he should be getting back to the castle; that he should go in and just go to bed. But as the thought of answering questions from his friends made his stomach clench, he sighed instead. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured helplessly, meeting Malfoy’s eyes once more; eyes that narrowed, that frowned in confusion. That searched his, but that thankfully, held no malice. 

“What’s gotten into you, Potter?” he asked, after a moment. Harry had never thought he’d see the day when he’d be relieved when Malfoy spoke to him with no bite, no sarcasm, no hint of scathing distaste or disgust, just simple concern. And yet here they were. 

“I… ” he began, trying to think of something more acceptable to say than “my uncle was an abusive prick and every time I hear someone saying the word ‘boy’ I remember him shoving me in a cupboard and starving me”. But as an arched eyebrow climbed towards Malfoy’s hairline, pressuring him, Harry sighed, resigning himself to the easiest explanation—the truth.

“I hate it when people call me ‘boy’,” he murmured, avoiding Malfoy’s gaze. Even so, he caught Malfoy’s slight recoil of confusion.

“What?” his brow furrowed, grey eyes suddenly trying to analyse every inch of his own. “Why? It’s just what you are—you’re a boy!”

“ _ Obviously,”  _ Harry sighed, annoyed. “But I—”

“—So why do you hate it?” 

Honestly, why did the wanker bother asking a question if he wasn’t going to give him the chance to answer anyway?!

“Well, I was _trying_ to _tell you,”_ Harry enunciated through gritted teeth before sighing and closing his eyes. “That my uncle used to call me 'boy' whenever I did something wrong. Which, apparently, was all the time. So… It's not really got good memories attached to it…”

As he focused on the ripples on the surface of the lake, Malfoy paused for a moment, before giving a quiet, “Oh…”

“Yeah…” Harry huffed a humourless laugh. “That’s why, Malfoy… But I’m sorry about the… Wand pointing at your throat… Thing…”

After a pause, Malfoy shrugged noncommittally. 

“S’alright, Potter. We both know I can be far more dramatic than you.” He flicked his hair as if to prove a point; despite himself, a small smile toyed at Harry’s lips. 

“But…” Malfoy began, regarding him carefully. “If you don’t like it, then why don’t you stop people from referring to you as ‘The Boy Who Lived’?” Malfoy asked. “You’re  _ Harry Potter.  _ You can tell them to do anything. Fame has to be good for something.”

“Oh sure, I can see the headline now: ‘ _ Saviour of the World Refuses Thanks and Shits on Little Tokens of Appreciation Because He Really is a Selfish Bastard Afterall. Guess Voldemort Really Did Fuck Him Up.’”  _ He sighed, shaking his head and flopping back onto the sand. “It’s not that simple, Malfoy.”

“Says the one who defeated The Prick Who Must Not Be Named,” quipped Malfoy, sitting down a few feet away. 

“Voldemort was one maniac,” Harry snapped, “not thousands of hysterical witches and wizards all hanging off every word  _ The Prophet  _ gives them. Trust me, it won’t work—And honestly? I’m done with fighting. I’ve done it for seven years, I just want it to stop. I can’t be assed anymore.”

With a final sigh that  _ definitely  _ wasn’t dramatic, no matter  _ what  _ the pointy prick’s amused smirk said, Harry fell onto his back to frown at the purple sky; at the twinkling stars that were far too happy to be allowed. 

“Wow,” Malfoy murmured, and Harry growled at the smile in his voice. “Saving the world really can make you a grumpy git, can’t it?” 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he tried to spit venomously, glowering as he instead succeeded in breaking the world record for using the most petulant tone. Of course, Malfoy snorted at him—the utter bastard—before teasing him some more. 

“Maybe that’s what you should get your adoring fans to call you; Grumpy Git, or Grumps for short… Yeah, ‘HP The GG’. See, it even rhymes! I could make a badge—I know how much you loved my ‘Potter Stinks’ badges in Fourth Year… I could mock some up for your approval? Though, on second thought, I have always thought that ‘Scarhead’ has an excellent ring to it, what do you thi—OI!”

As Harry aimed a jet of water straight at the git’s stupid, pointy face, he smirked in satisfaction, watching as Malfoy cowered uselessly behind his hands, failing to escape.

“I’m just trying to help you, you dickhead!” he exclaimed from beneath the downpour. 

“And I’m trying to help you shut your hole,” Harry replied without batting an eyelid. But when the spell finally spluttered to a stop, and the Slytherin peeked through his curtain of hair, Harry couldn’t help but grin in triumph; Malfoy looked like a drowned rat!

“Fuck off, you cretin," he snipped, aiming his wand at his hair and performing an elaborate, all in one drying and styling charm. But as Harry’s smile bubbled to a few rare, gentle snorts of laughter, the subtle hint of amusement in Malfoy’s eyes didn’t escape his notice. 

“There,” Malfoy said pointedly, sticking his nose in the air as he stowed his wand away. “Try that again, Potter, and I’ll make sure you regret it!”

“Oh, I’m  _ shaking  _ with fear, Malfoy.” Harry rolled his eyes, unable to shake the smile from his face. “I’m sure there are so many things you could do to make my life hell right now… Not like it isn’t already…” 

And just like that, the smile was gone again.

“Don’t challenge me, Potter.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow once more, daring him to keep sparring. But as memories of the castle and the Howler circled in his mind again, all he could do was stare gloomily into the ever deepening darkness. After a moment, Malfoy sighed.

“Look,” he said eventually, “Who have you actually told that you don’t like them calling you that? If some people know then that will improve things a little, right?”

“Well…” he began, strongly doubting that anything could help him much right now, but knowing answering the bossy git was best. “No-one, I guess? I—I mean,” he rushed to continue as Malfoy’s expression redefined the meaning of ‘incredulous’. “Ron and Hermione know that I don’t like all the media attention and stuff, and they know bits about my uncle, but… I don’t think they know I don’t like being called ‘boy’… It’s… Never really come up…”

“Well, maybe it should? If it makes you that uncomfortable? Honestly, Potter, how you managed to defeat Lord Maniac I’ll never know. Granger obviously had  _ a lot  _ to do with it.”

“Oh shut up.” He shoved the pillock. “But for the record, I could never have done it without her  _ or  _ Ron, no matter what you—or anyone else, for that matter—say. They’re both amazing and deserve just as much recognition as me, and—”

“Okay! Okay, Potter, I get it! Relax! I’m not insulting Weaselbee or Granger! They’re both integral assets to the Murder the Mad-Man team! I get it! Circe's tits!”

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Sorry, people just—” 

“—Tend to forget they exist and focus on you? Yeah, I know! I have actually been alive and not living under a rock in the past five months, you know,” Malfoy interrupted impatiently. “But seriously, does no-one outside of Slytherin know the value of self-preservation?! You know, looking after yourself?" When Harry stared at him blankly, Malfoy practically jumped on the spot.

"Tell your friends, Potter! Make sure they don't call you 'boy', or make jokes, or just—you know—make sure they make funny names up about _The_ _Prophet_ every time another headline comes out! That's what friends are supposed to be there for! Or are Slytherins the only ones that care about loyalty, too? At this rate, I'm going to vote that we officially rename Gryffindors 'Gryffindorks'…”

"Hey," Harry protested weakly. "We know about loyalty! Ask Ron! I'm just…"

"An idiot." Malfoy helpfully supplied, earning himself a half-hearted whack to his shoulder. 

" _ No! _ ... Yeah…" he admitted, smiling sheepishly as Malfoy snorted again. 

"You're a disaster, Potter. Tell them. It'll help. And trust me, I know it's a sacrifice, but I'm willing to make it just for you; I promise to only call you Scarhead from now on."

As Harry whipped out his wand to send another stream of water at Malfoy's head, the prick laughed, jumping up and running as fast as he could back to the castle before Harry had the chance to catch him. 

"Can't get me, Potter! Tell your friends! Or I'll start calling you HP the GG too!"

"Get fucked, you twat!" he called as Malfoy simply laughed.

But as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, and Malfoy's figure retreated out of view, for the first time in forever, the belt around Harry's chest loosened. And when he eventually hauled himself up from the sand, arse numb and limbs shivering, to slowly walk back to the castle, still a small smile lit his face. 


	2. Chapter 2

It lasted all of a night. 

His good mood, the lighter chest, the ability to actually smile for once, lasted all of one fucking night.

As soon as the post was delivered the very next morning, Harry’s heart plummeted back to his stomach, the tightness returning full force as yet another headline soured his morning tea. 

_ Will The Boy Who Lived Spend Christmas at Hogwarts? How to Use His Attachment to the Castle to Thank Him Properly! _

As yet another round of ‘stare at the Saviour whilst drooling’ began, Harry shoved his bacon away, seriously wondering whether he could convince McGonagall to send all his school work directly to Grimmauld Place, where he could live out his days as a hermit.

“Oh for goodness sake!” Hermione hissed, slamming the tabloid down on the table so hard orange and pumpkin juice jumped out of at least five cups. “Haven’t they got anything better to talk about? There are hundreds of new laws being debated  _ right now.  _ Why aren’t they focusing on those and leaving you alone?”

“Yeah!” Ron joined, as Harry gave her the worst imitation of a smile anyone had ever seen. “Poncy selfish idiots, the lot of them! You finally have a quiet year and they’re hell-bent on ruining it! You should talk to Kingsley, mate. He’d help sort out something to shut them up—like a post block, or—or an Auror strength filtration spell of some kind. I’m sure Dad told me about a guy he knew who needed one once… Yeah, he did! Mental, it was! This poor bloke—much like you, really—had people keeping him up all hours of the night with their post; Howlers, gifts—and not just normal gifts, either, like, actual  _ animals!  _ One sod sent him a bloody Demiguise”—Hermione gasped slightly, an awed look on her face—“But the Aurors sorted him right out; he finally got a decent night’s sleep and was never bothered again! You should get one, mate.”

“Yeah,” Hermione chipped in, as dreams of peaceful mornings with no responsibilities, no hounding, and no attention hung tantalisingly in front of Harry for all of two seconds. “I can help draft a letter if you want, or talk to McGonagall, or—”

“No.” Giving Hermione a grimace of apology to Hermione for interrupting, he sighed. “Thanks, but I don’t think it would work,” Harry sighed. “They’d just get annoyed that I want to be left alone—take it as a personal insult or something. It’s fine…” 

“It’s not though, Harry,” Hermione insisted. “You haven’t been yourself in ages. Honestly, it’s like we’re back in the tent from last year; you were actually… Well, not  _ happier,  _ you could hardly be happier whilst starving in a tent with the Horcrux from hell around your neck, but—” She sighed, the concern and exasperation in her eyes making his skin crawl. “You were… Better, then… You had more purpose, more fight. You’ve just been so… Defeated, Harry. I really think you should—”

“I can’t, Hermione,” he snapped. “They want a hero. They’re hurt, and grieving, and I’m the closest thing they have to hope—”

“—That doesn’t mean you  _ have  _ to be, though, Harry. That’s not fair!”

“Nothing’s fucking  _ fair _ , Hermione!” he yelled. “Look around you! If it was fair, Colin would still be alive! And Remus, and Tonks, and fucking Fred, and—” A lump formed in his throat as Ron and Hermione both flinched as though struck. He took a breath. 

“If you try to stop them now, they’re just going to revolt. It’ll make my life a thousand times worse, and I just can’t deal with that right now, so just drop it and just… Go to Charms…”

Without waiting for a response, he spun in his spot, grabbing his bag and flinging it over his shoulder so hard it collided with an unsuspecting Hufflepuff, who just happened to be standing behind him talking to a friend. 

‘ _ Well, there’s tomorrow’s headline,’  _ he grumbled to himself as he stalked away without so much as an apologetic glance, vaguely hoping his friends were less of an asshole than he was and had apologised for him.  _ ‘Saviour maims innocent student with school bag. Has killing the evil snake man unleashed a murderous thirst?’  _ He sighed, barely resisting the urge to walk straight into the wall, or straight off the moving staircase… But with hundreds of other students flooding the corridors, heading to their own lessons, somehow it was a bit too public to attempt suicide; that would just lead to someone becoming ‘The Saviour of the Saviour’ or some other nonsense, as they ‘heroically’ interrupted. No, he was better off just getting out of the corridor before some nervous fangirl (or boy) tried to talk to him and got yelled at. 

Thankfully, no-one so much as looked at him on the way to Charms, and—unsurprisingly—he was the first one there, giving him the pick of the seats. A nice corner seat flanked by Ron and Hermione—assuming they were still talking to him of course, given the way he acted—was exactly what he needed today. Taking advantage of the solitude, he dropped his head to the table for a moment, banging once, twice, three times, before sighing to himself and slowly taking out his parchment, quill, and ink for the lesson. 

He’d just put his bag back on the floor when the door opened to let Ron and Hermione in, the former still scoffing a muffin. As Harry focused on his quill, Hermione sighed.

“Come on, Ron,” she murmured before footsteps fell. But somehow, miraculously, just a few moments later, the chairs on either side of him were pulled out, and bushy hair invaded his personal space. The slightest spark of happiness rippled through him.

“Thanks,” he muttered quietly as more students filed in.

“S’alright, mate.” Ron shrugged, plonking a muffin down on Harry’s parchment with a genuine smile. “We get it.”

“Just remember we want to help, Harry?” Hermione asked, giving him a kiss on the cheek after he nodded. “If there’s anything we can do…” 

As another lump formed in Harry’s throat for a whole different reason, he could only nod, giving them the first proper smile all morning. He really did have incredible friends… 

“So,” Hermione started after taking a deep breath. “How did you both find the homework?”

Immediately, Harry and Ron groaned in unison, sharing exasperated looks as Hermione jumped into a spiel about how she’d found it challenging to only write three feet of parchment as requested, and had ended up with five and a half, only to remember she’d entirely missed out Bershwinder’s Theorem from 1602. 

“Whose theorem from when?” Ron asked, looking completely cockled. 

“You know, Bershwinder! He worked with Guillem who learned from Malberth, who got the idea from Slipner. How I could forget him, I’ll never know—do you think I’ll lose any marks for it?” she bit her lip, staring earnestly between them. But as Ron simply raised his eyebrows and Harry’s head span, she sighed despicably. 

“Honestly, you two!”

“Give them a break, Granger.” A voice to Harry’s left caught his attention. “We both know these two barely know what books are.” The flash of white teeth beneath a stupid smirk blinded him for just a second as Ron bristled, before grey eyes settled on him. 

“Alright there, Scarhead?” Malfoy grinned, raising an eyebrow in his usual cock-sure expression. For some reason, his stomach flipped slightly at the name. “Ready to fail your demonstration of a vision distortion charm? Everyone knows you can’t cast anything but  _ Expelliarmus!”  _

“What’s wrong, Malfoy? Scared you’ll do worse than me?” he quipped, an easy smirk lifting his lips as Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, indignance flooding them. 

“Always liked making an entrance, didn’t you?” Harry continued before Malfoy could stop spluttering and form a coherent sentence. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to steal that privilege from you,” he grinned. ”I’ll make sure your spot is safe.” 

“Insolence, Scarhead!” Malfoy exclaimed, slapping a hand to his heart in feigned shock and scandal. “Just  _ what  _ would your adoring press say?!” 

“Now you listen here, Malf—” Ron growled, making to stand up. But Harry just snorted.

“Fuck ‘em!” he crowed a little too loudly, quickly adding, “Just don’t tell them I said that!” and making the prick snort. 

“As if I’d dare, Potter,” he smirked. “As if I’d dare…” 

As the squeaky voice of Flitwick finally called the class to attention, Malfoy slowly sauntered towards his seat, eyes still dancing playfully as Harry smiled at the arrogant git, and Ron tentatively sank down in his seat again.

“Mate,” he whispered as Harry set to work copying down the date and title. “What was that?!”

“What was what?” he asked without taking his eyes off his parchment.

“That! The—the flirting! _ ”  _ he hissed. Harry stared at him, utterly bewildered.

“What flirting? That wasn’t flirting! That was—was just having a joke!” 

“And since when do you  _ joke  _ with  _ Malfoy?!”  _ Ron exclaimed, staring at him as if he had three heads. “I know you haven’t hated each other since the end of the war, and all, but—seriously?” 

“‘Seriously’ what, Ron? It’s just banter, that’s what happens when people don’t actively hate each other. You and I do it all the time—or are you telling me that we flirt too?”

“Of course we don’t flirt, you twit,” Ron snapped, ears pinkening as Hermione mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Ron couldn’t flirt if he tried’. “But believe me, I’ve grown up with five older brothers—two of which were Fred and George—I  _ know  _ what flirting looks like. And mate, I love you, and if you’re into blokes, or merpeople, or whatever, I don’t care! But you and Draco bleeding Malfoy, prat almighty, were definitely flirting, and that’s weird.”

“We weren’t!” Harry insisted, exasperatedly turning to Hermione. “Come on, Hermione! Tell him! We weren’t flirting, were we?” 

But even before he’d finished the question, he knew it was a lost cause; Hermione’s eyes were narrowed, flitting between the prick in question and him with a shrewd light glinting in them that Harry didn’t like one bit. 

“You know what? Nevermind,” he said hastily before she could even open her mouth. “I don’t want to know, let’s just… Flitwick will squawk if we talk for much longer.”

And though he refocused on his parchment as if his life depended on it, desperately trying to figure out what he’d missed in the last five minutes, he knew Ron and Hermione shared a look over his head. The bastards. 

Thankfully, with Flitwick babbling on at a rate of knots, and Hermione loathe to miss a single word, the daily struggle to pay attention to the evermore difficult lessons began, shutting Ron up, and chasing his insane comments—and anything else, for that matter—from Harry’s mind. And with a rare, glorious delivery and headline free lunch, for once, Harry found himself almost enjoying himself. Almost able to ignore the ever present sensation of responsibility that had been forced upon his shoulders by the rest of the Wizarding World. 

But as lessons finally ended for the day, a new pile of homework towering over him, all his friends began talking about going to Hogsmeade that weekend whilst all the other years were trapped in the castle. Even as his mouth watered for some Drooble’s bubble gum, the thought of hundreds of reporters lurking, desperate for an interview with _The Boy Who Lived_ , filled his mind, and Harry couldn’t fight the familiar sense of gloom that washed over him. As the rest of his friends all chatted, pretending to attempt their homework whilst planning their shopping trips, Harry merely stared morosely into the fire. 

“Wanna play some chess, mate?” Ron’s voice cut through the crackle and snap of the flames, bringing him back to the present. But though he knew a distraction was exactly what he needed, and getting completely trounced at chess was probably a good idea, he merely shook his head, barely able to find the energy to speak. 

“No thanks.” 

“Mate, don’t let them win! They’re stupid! And their headlines aren’t even good for Merlin’s sake; I mean, come on! _‘'_ _What Your Favourite Chocolate Says About Your Compatibility with The Boy Who Lived'_? _’_ _”_ Ron scoffed, quoting _Witch Weekly’s_ headline from a few weeks ago. “It’s just nonsense! Who would even _write_ something like that? They’re just stupid people with nothing better to do. They don’t deserve to spoil your day—heck, they don’t even deserve to be employed! How many times have they used the same words—the same _stories_ even—when talking about you? Eh? It’s all recycled bollocks! One day we’ll sit back and laugh at them for being so ridiculous. This year is supposed to be fun, mate; don’t let them ruin it!” 

But when Harry simply sighed and nodded, too exhausted to do anything else, Ron pulled himself forward in his seat, launching into another spiel that Harry was sure he was going to tune out.

“I bet  _ I  _ could come up with better names for you than they could,” he said, as Harry raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m sure I can! I thought journalists were supposed to be clever, but they don’t half love calling you ‘The Boy Who Lived’—” Harry flinched slightly, unease tightening in his stomach. “I mean, sure, everyone knows you as  _ that  _ boy—” the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “—But surely by now they could have come up with something different and more inventive than  _ Wonder Boy _ — _ ” _

“—Ron—” he began, his fists clenching of their own accord. But Ron wasn’t listening. 

“Or  _ Golden Boy _ —” 

“—Ron—” his heart pounded as his jaw clenched. Still Ron carried on. 

“—It’s just ridiculous and repetitive! If they’re going to call you anything, they should invent something new! Like—like Super Boy—”

“— _ Ron!” _

“Or maybe not, because that sounds awful, but it’s definitely better than the ‘Boy Hero—”

“ _ RON! _ ” 

Suddenly, everyone in the common room went quiet as Harry’s voice carried much further than he’d meant for it to, and Hermione’s head snapped up, as she finally looked away from her homework. 

“Fuck,” he swore quietly, slumping further in his seat and forcing his hands to unclench as his heart raced. As Ron blinked at him in surprise, white-blond hair disappeared down behind a high-backed armchair across the common room.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron murmured quietly, deflating back into his chair as people slowly turned back to their own activities with the help of a glare or two from Hermione. “I was just trying to help…” 

“I know you were,” he sighed. “it’s just…” A shiver ran down his spine as nerves suddenly fluttered in his stomach. “I… I don’t really like it when people call me ‘boy’,” he blurted. “And I know that sounds stupid, and I know it’s probably ridiculous, I know I’ve  _ always  _ been called ‘The Boy Who Lived’, but I just—I  _ hate  _ it. It never used to be this bad, but it’s all I’ve heard since May and it’s driving me mad and I just… Argh!” He threw a hand into his hair, barely resisting the urge to pull it out. 

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” he murmured, head falling back against the armchair, as Hermione slowly set aside her book.

“It’s not ridiculous, Harry,” she said quietly. “It makes a lot of sense, especially given the way your uncle treated you—isn’t that what he called you?” 

Harry nodded, chest warring to tighten and relax at the same time as his uncle’s voice boomed distantly in his head again, but relief trickled through him at Hermione’s words. 

“Of course you aren’t going to like being called that—or even referred to as that. But,” she paused, tilting her head slightly, looking at him as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. “I have to ask, is it just because your uncle called you that, or is it something else as well?” 

Harry frowned at her. 

“It’s because of him,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It just reminds me of being back there all over again—in the cupboard, with no food, no light, no room, no nothing.” He shook his head as the memories swirled dangerously, tightening the band in his chest once more. “What else could it be?” 

“Well,” she began, flicking her hair over her shoulder as both Harry and Ron settled in for a lecture. “There’s been a lot of research lately in both Wizard and Muggle circles about gender, because in many places of the world, they don’t just have two genders like we do, male and female, but other ones as well. For example, some people don’t identify as any gender at all—which is called being agender—and for others, their experience of their gender can change from day to day, so some days they might feel more masculine, and others they might feel more feminine—which is known as being genderfluid.” Harry chanced a glance at Ron, who, thankfully, was looking just as bewildered as he was. 

“All the research actually began a few centuries ago; Professor Binns has mentioned it a few times, which both of you would know if you actually paid attention once in a while,” Hermione continued with a pointed glare at both of them, completely oblivious to their confusion, as she always was whenever she got invested in a subject. “But apparently the wars took precedent, so studies were stopped for a while—until now, that is. Now that everything’s a bit more settled, professors and theorists from all over the world are talking about doing more research and trying to educate the Wizarding World as a whole about gender, as it’s so important, and not many people actually know about all the possibilities, but tend to believe we only have two options—male or female, of course. So, I was wondering if you’d considered whether it was just the term ‘boy’ you didn’t like, or whether it could be the concept of being a boy as a whole that you’re uncomfortable with?”

“Er—I… Um… What?” Harry stuttered as Hermione watched him, a calm, expectant expression on her face. 

“Do you think you’re a man, Harry? Do you think you’re male? Or do you think you might be something else?” she asked patiently, deep brown eyes burning as they watched him. With nothing else to add to the conversation than helpless splutters, Ron thankfully came to his aid. 

“How can he not be a bo—I mean, bloke—Hermione?” Ron asked incredulously. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, finally finding his voice. “I mean… I… I’ve never been uncomfortable with being masculine. I don’t mind shaving or—or having a—a,  _ you know— _ ” he gestured at his lap— “I don’t care if I’m manly, or—”  _ muscular,  _ he went to say. But as the memory of picture-Harry, so handsome, so toned and strong, swirled in his mind again, and his stomach clenched so violently he had to swallow hard, the word died on his tongue. And shit if that didn’t send bolts of terror through him. 

“And I’ve  _ definitely  _ never wanted to be a girl!” he exclaimed instead, shoving horrifying emotions and questions away before they could fully form. 

“But not being happy with your gender doesn’t automatically mean that you want to be the opposite binary gender, Harry. It could mean you want to float somewhere outside the binary,” Hermione said in that maddeningly patient voice. “And honestly? When have you had the time to think about these things, Harry? You’ve been a bit busy tracking down a mad-man and trying to keep him from killing you over the past few years. You could have been unhappy and not even realised it—in fact, most people who don’t want to be the opposite binary gender often  _ don’t  _ realise they could be unhappy with their gender, simply because they don’t know that a gender identity different to a binary  _ exists.  _ It’s only they hear, learn, or discover about the existence of other genders, like nonbinary, or agender, that they realise. That could be you, Harry.” She stared at him earnestly, as the room spun around him. Suddenly, a new spark ignited in her eyes, and Harry cringed there and then, shooting Ron a silent plea for help. Unfortunately, however, Ron was slumped back in his seat, looking completely overwhelmed by the whole situation; he was on his own.

“You should make a list of words you don’t like!” Hermione practically bounced in her seat, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and dipping her quill in ink in anticipation. “We know you don’t like 'boy'; do you like being referred to as ‘he’?”

“I… Er… I don’t… I mean, I never… What?” 

“Think about it, Harry,” she urged, an excited smile pulling at her lips. “You don’t like ‘boy’, so how did you feel when Ron called you a bloke?” 

“Er—” he stalled, swallowing as his heartbeat thumped in his ears, doing nothing to soothe his rapidly forming headache. “Oh, I don’t  _ know _ , Hermione,” he whined, wishing the room wasn’t suddenly so hot—why did they always sit by the fire, anyway?! 

“Well, I think you should think about it,” Hermione stated in a tone that Harry knew there would be no argument with, as she began scribbling on the parchment.

“Here’s a list of useful books to find in the library. You and Ron should go and do some research—I’ve been telling you for  _ years  _ that you two need to read more!—and  _ here’s  _ a list of words I want you to think about, to see if you’re comfortable with them. If you are, then fine, it’s just your uncle. But you never know, Harry, and it doesn’t hurt to check!”

With a final flourish of her quill, the parchment was shoved into his hands. Before he’d even had the chance to skim through the list, however, Hermione was moving, packing her things away, and heading towards the dorms with a not so subtle wink at the still baffled Ron. As an easy smile brightened his face, seemingly giving him new energy as he leaned forward just enough for Harry to catch his ears pinkening, Harry rolled his eyes affectionately, turning back to the list once more. 

“Any excuse to get us in the library, eh mate?” Ron murmured after a moment. “Did that make any sense to you?”

“Absolutely none,” Harry snorted, stubbornly ignoring the way his stomach lurched surprisingly at words like ‘man’ and ‘gent’. “She’s mental…”

“Yeah,” Ron laughed, pretending to shuffle his books and homework as his leg jigged on the spot and his eyes strayed up to the girl’s dorm every few seconds. 

“Do you wanna go through the list now?” Ron asked. “Better to do it and get it over with; we both know what her nagging can be like.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t remind me,” Harry huffed easily, sharing a grin. But as Ron’s gaze strayed again, Harry smiled, nodding his head towards the dorm.

“Go on,” he ushered, as Ron’s eyes widened in hope. “I’m fine, you should go to bed.”

“Are—are you sure? I mean, it was a pretty heavy discussion and I don’t mind—”

“Seriously,” Harry laughed slightly. “Go do things I don’t want to hear about. I’m fine. And clearly have some research to do.” 

“As ever,” Ron chuckled as Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yep. So go and escape while you can; save yourself,” Harry laughed. 

For a moment, Ron paused—as Harry knew he would—double-checking that Harry really was okay. But with the threat of having a pillow thrown at him, and his girlfriend summoned to take him to bed herself, finally Ron grinned, scarpering up the stairs two at a time as Harry laughed, wishing him goodnight. But though the clock was striking eleven, and the common room was emptying, and the knowledge of double transfiguration first thing in the morning weighed on him, the moment the door closed behind his best friend, Harry’s mind buzzed, alive with thoughts from their conversation, as the list practically burned in his hands, and he knew there was no use going to bed yet. 

He was happy being male, right? He’d never hated having a dick or anything, so that surely meant he was a… A  _ man.  _

But as his stomach clenched at the term, he sighed, Malfoy’s words once again circling in his mind. 

“ _ You’re a boy!”  _

_ "Obviously,"  _ he'd said last night. Now, merely a day later, he wasn’t so sure. 

As time ticked steadily on, Harry slumped further in his chair, lost in his thoughts as the rest of the dorm drifted slowly on up to bed. Only when the clock struck two did he wander up himself, still wide awake, and just as confused as ever. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW PANIC ATTACK IN THIS CHAPTER

To his utter lack of surprise, sleep didn’t come. 

He lay there; he tossed, he turned, he punched his pillow into what was supposed to be a more comfortable position, and he rearranged the covers— _ repeatedly _ —but all to no avail. No matter how many sheep he counted, no matter how much he focused on the sounds of Neville snoring, or checked the time—as if trying to guilt his conscience into letting him sleep—still his mind replayed and remixed the conversation over, and over, and over again. 

_ ‘Different genders,’  _ Hermione had said.  _ ‘Somewhere outside of the binary.’ _ —as if that was supposed to mean something to him.

‘ _ How can he not be a bo _ — _ a bloke _ — _ Hermione?’  _ Ron had said—and wasn’t that just the question?

_ ‘Do you like being referred to as ‘he’?’  _ she’d questioned—were there actual alternatives to pronouns?!

_ ‘Man,’  _ he’d read, stopping in his tracks as his stomach had lurched so violently he almost threw up. 

Time and again the words, faces, voices, circled his mind, and after each pointless, frustrating rotation, he was left infinitely more frustrated and confused than before. The longer he stayed in bed, tossing, turning, and begging for sleep, the further away it seemed he got, frustration chasing any stray tendrils of sleep that tried to claim him. It wasn’t until the first birds started heralding in the morning he definitely wasn’t ready for, however, that he finally gave up. Casting another  _ Tempus,  _ Harry sighed as the ungodly time of 5:06 blinked tauntingly at him. As every fibre of his being vehemently protested, Harry hauled himself back down the stairs he’d stumbled up just a few hours ago, falling into the very same armchair he’d claimed earlier, and resigned himself to another sleepless night. The second in three days. Just brilliant. At least the sound of the fire crackling was peaceful…

“Well, look who we have here…”

… Or it was until some idiot decided to talk all over it and scare the living shit out of him… 

“Malfoy,” Harry sighed, wearily turning his head to find the prick curled up in the deep green armchair directly opposite the fire in pyjamas and a hoodie so similar in colour to the leather seat he was inhabiting, he literally looked like part of the furniture, the ever-present smirk on his face. But as the flames cast a dancing shadow over the big bags under his eyes, and emphasised just how pale the git really was, the desired effect was definitely ruined. 

“What are you doing up at this ridiculous hour, Scarhead?” Malfoy drawled, pale, slender fingers coming to rest behind his head as tired eyes bored into his. Harry simply rolled his eyes.

“I could ask you the exact same question, Malfoy.”

“Yes, you could,” he mused, “but you haven’t. I’ve asked you. And it’s impolite to not answer, Scarhead. So I ask again; what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

“As if you care about being impolite, you prat,” he scoffed. As a chill ran down his spine, Harry suddenly wished he’d brought a blanket down, eying Malfoy’s soft-looking hoody with envy, as the twirp in question pretended to recoil dramatically.

“Such impertinence, Potter!” he exclaimed, the glimmers of mischief shining through the tired haze in his silver eyes making it obvious that he was indeed  _ terribly  _ affronted by being spoken to in such a way. “Just why people adore you I’ll  _ never  _ know!” 

And though his lips genuinely did twitch at the ridiculous idiot’s dramatics, exhaustion and the relentless weight of pressure from the public won in the fight for energy to respond. 

“Trust me, me neither…” he murmured, huffing a breath parading as a laugh, as he let his heavy eyelids slip closed. Malfoy hummed slightly.

“Still a grumpy git, I see,” he mused, and Harry just  _ knew  _ he had an eyebrow raised.

“HP the GG, Malfoy, that’s me. You of all people should know that,” he sighed, drawing his knees up to his chest as he shivered.

“Merlin’s balls, Potter, don’t you know how to cast a warming charm?” Malfoy muttered. 

“Hey, I know how to cast them, thank you very much.” He frowned in the general direction of the scornful voice. “I spent an entire year in a tent, I’ll have you know. I cast the best warming charm out of all of us—even Hermione!”

“Now that is obvious bollocks, Scarhead. That’s just not possible.”

“Is too!” he insisted. Then, unable to resist a challenge from the prig, “Pass me your wand and I’ll show you!” 

But before he even had the chance to hold out his hand, or open his eyes, a soft snigger reached his ears, and warmth enveloped him, curling from his toes to the final strands of his hair, soothing each tired, sore muscle in a single breath. 

“ _ Oh… _ ” he groaned, sinking further into the plush chair as every ounce of tension left him for a few glorious seconds. “Wow…”

“Have an orgasm, why don’t you, Scarhead,” Malfoy sniggered. “The perfect way to say ‘thank you’.” But as pure bliss sent a shiver down his spine, Harry didn’t care. 

“I will,” he smiled, cracking an eye open to catch a rare, brilliant smile on Malfoy’s face as the wanker actually chuckled for once. 

That was one of the surprising things he’d enjoyed most about getting to know the man who he’d hated for his entire school career—seeing the real Malfoy. The one behind the barbs, the sneers, the taunts. They were still him, of course—Malfoy would never be Malfoy without his quick wit and razor-sharp tongue—but there was also a softer side, a more genuine side, reserved only of those he was comfortable with, only those he trusted. And every time Harry managed to catch a glimpse of the softer guy beneath, a surge of satisfaction akin to that of catching the snitch in a Quidditch match swept through him. Now, in the common room at arse o’clock, exhausted and half-fed up of life, was no different. 

“I’m truly honoured to have witnessed such a thing.” Malfoy laughed quietly, as Harry actually gave a snort or two himself. 

“You are, Malfoy. And don’t you forget it.” He grinned as Malfoy collapsed into silent giggles. “Do you have any idea how much people would  _ pay  _ for such an opportunity?!”

“And you’re giving me a show for free, Potter! How very kind,” he sniggered between giggles. “My, how far we’ve come. If my eleven year old self could only see me now…” 

“Finally, something decent to tell your father about,” Harry laughed, as the most horrified look he’d ever seen captured Malfoy’s face.

“Merlin and Morgana,” Malfoy breathed. “Can you imagine his face?! We wouldn’t need to send him to Azkaban, he’d swim there himself, begging for the Kiss!” his lips twitched again as Harry laughed once more. “Why didn’t you think of this before, Potter? You could have saved us all loads of trouble!”

“Oh, sorry!” Harry laughed. “I thought the more important thing to think about was staying alive. Apparently, I was mistaken!” 

“What self-respecting teenager doesn’t enjoy a good long shower at least once a day, Potter, honestly!”

“Oh, so  _ that’s  _ why it takes you two hours to get ready in the morning, Malfoy. Good to know.” He grinned as Malfoy’s ears turned pink despite the practiced expression of confident nonchalance plastered on his face. 

“You can’t rush beauty, Potter. You of all people should know  _ that,  _ Mr I-roll-out-of-bed-and-into-lessons-looking-like-death.”

“Aw, are you concerned about me, Malfoy?” Harry taunted.

“Me? Worry?” Malfoy asked incredulously. “And ruin this face with wrinkles? You must be joking.”

“Oh, of course. You wouldn’t want to look like  _ more  _ of a slapped ass, how silly of me—oomf!”

“You take that back!” Malfoy screeched as a pillow collided with Harry’s face none too gently. But as Harry finally laughed properly for the first time in weeks, and Malfoy’s own sniggers slipped past his lips, despite his best efforts to forbid them, he could only shake his head.

“Never, Malfoy. Absolutely never.”

As Malfoy glared pointedly at him, he couldn’t help dissolving into another fit of laughter, warmth spreading through him as soft chuckles from Malfoy joined his own loud, free guffaws. It was the most free he’d felt in  _ weeks.  _

“Merlin, but you are a twat, Potter,” Malfoy breathed, as slowly their laughter died down.

“Right back at you, Malfoy,” Harry grinned, eyes slipping closed once more, revelling in the comfort of easy companionship as Malfoy scoffed once again. But as a sudden yawn overtook the twit, for once, Harry got the last word, and silence reigned, pleasant and soft between them. So soft, in fact, that he could almost… Start to drift off…

“You know,” Malfoy’s own, sleep laden voice began, just as Harry’s head began to nod. “You never did tell me why you’re down here…” 

Didn’t the git ever give up?

“Didn’t I? Oh, how rude. Oh well, too late now, time to sleep,” Harry mumbled, nuzzling into the armchair as it cradled his head in  _ just  _ the right position.

“Now, now, Potter,” Malfoy teased, stifling another yawn. “Manners, please. What brought you down here?”

“The prospect of hexing the twat who was rude enough to try and keep me awake,” he deadpanned, glaring at the wanker through barely-opened eyes. Malfoy, of course, merely snorted and raised his stupid eyebrow again. 

“If I told you why I’m down here, would you tell me why you’re awake?”

Harry scoffed, closing his eyes once more.

“Now who’s big-headed, Malfoy? Who says I’d care what you’re doing down here?”

“Don’t you?” the pillock snorted. “You’re the one who stalked me all through Sixth Year!”

“Look, that was  _ one year, _ ” Harry immediately protested, earning himself a cocky, knowing grin from Prick-almighty. But as curiosity began suggesting all kinds of possible explanations for Malfoy’s activities, he finally gave up.

“Ugh, fine!” he sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Why are you down here?”

“Nightmares,” Malfoy stated immediately, just a tad less smug than he should have been, betraying the effect they really had on him. “You?”

But as grey eyes settled steadily on him, Harry’s mind suddenly went blank. 

“Er—” he fumbled, not in the least bit willing to blurt ‘I don’t know if I’m a boy or not and didn’t know there were options other than boy or girl, and now Hermione’s given me a list of words, some of which make me feel sick, and the conversation keeps making my head spin so I can’t sleep’.

“Now, now, Scarhead, you knew the rules and you agreed, so you have to answer; why are you awake?” 

“I know that, you prat,” he snapped, the urge to send another jet of water flying at his stupid, patronising face itching in his fingertips. “And I’m trying! I just… Don’t know where to start—and  _ don’t  _ say the beginning or I’ll hex you right here, right now!” he warned, catching the sarcastic glint in the idiot’s eye. 

“Fine, fine, take your time, Potter.” Malfoy held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll be here. Waiting. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Oh, fuck off, you wanker,” he spat as Malfoy snorted. Still, silence fell as Malfoy politely looked away, staring into the last embers of the dying fire, and Harry bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth for a second before just throwing himself into the conversation.

“Well, you know I wasn’t comfortable with people calling me boy?”

“Funnily enough, Potter, yes, the wand to my throat was quite a memorable experience.”

Harry winced; “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to—”

“—Oh stop being a Hufflepuff and get on with it, Scarhead.” Malfoy flapped a hand dismissively. “I might apparently have all night, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear that drivel.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, ushering Harry on.

“Right, okay.” Harry took a deep breath, too nervous to even spare a thought to the insults. 

“Well, I told Ron and Hermione as you suggested, and Hermione asked if it was just the word boy or something else and… Well, do you know that some people don’t, um, think of themselves as either male or female? But like… Feel like they’re something different?” 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“You mean like Nonbinary, Potter, yes, continue.” 

But Harry just stared blankly at him, earning himself another eye-roll.

“Circe’s tits, Potter, slaying the shitty snake-faced twat doesn’t mean you shouldn’t study, you oaf! Do you ever pay attention in class?”

“Yes!” he said indignantly. “Just… Not when Binns drones on…” he added sheepishly, shifting slightly as Malfoy gave an almighty sigh and muttered ‘Despicable’.

“Well anyway,” he rushed on, having a feeling Malfoy would probably give him a brilliant definition of whatever ‘nonbinary’ was, but not entirely sure he was ready for it just yet, “Hermione wondered if I might not like the word ‘boy’ for reasons other than my uncle and gave me a whole speech about gender identities—which I didn’t even know was a thing—and a list of words to go through to see if I was comfortable with them or not—which was just… Overwhelming—and I haven’t gone through it properly yet but… Well, it was all just playing on my mind.”

As he stared at a random point on the horizon, stubbornly ignoring the intense gaze burning his skin, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Malfoy nodded in understanding. 

“Well, it does sound like quite the bombshell before bed,” he mused. “So I suppose it’s not really that surprising that you couldn’t sleep.” 

Honestly, why did it sound like the git was trying to give him permission to be upset?

“Wanna tell me what words were on the list, Scarhead?”

“Why bother asking, Malfoy?” Harry scoffed. “Even if I didn’t you’d bug me until I did!”

“So hurry up and tell me before I make you.” His easy smirk only grew as Harry glared at him, before sighing and running a hand through his hair. 

“Ugh, I don’t know.” He grimaced. “A load of—of  _ masculine  _ words—” He turned his nose up, belt around his chest tightening as Hermione’s handwriting seemed to float in front of his face once more. “Words like ‘gent’ and ‘chap’ and ‘handsome’ and—Ugh.” He shivered, suddenly struggling to breathe.“I really don’t want to think about it anymore.”

“Not surprising; you rarely think about anything, in my experience,” Malfoy quipped immediately.

“Fuck you.” A huff of a laugh took him by surprise, easing the tightness around his chest ever-so-slightly. “Besides, I seem to recall you not thinking everything through either. Like the time you tried to get me, Ron, and Hermione in trouble for being out of bed, and in doing so cost your own house 50 points and landed your sorry ass in detention?” he grinned. Malfoy scowled, much to his delight.

“I didn’t  _ try  _ to get you in trouble, Scarhead, I succeeded! I just took some collateral damage along the way, that’s all…” 

“Oh, is that what we’re calling idiocy nowadays? Collateral damage?”

Harry barely had time to bring his hands up to protect himself from the volley of pillows charmed to attack him that suddenly hurtled in his direction.

“Shut your face, you fucking wanker! Just because you defeated the dark fucking twat, and won the fucking house cup all those fucking years for being a fucking suck up!” he swore, all the while not showing an ounce of mercy as Harry pleaded for relief.

“Truce! Ah, shit, Malfoy! TRUCE!” he yelled as pillow after pillow pelted at him, sending his glasses flying and his hair in all directions. Still, as his pleas dissolved into helpless laughter once more, and Malfoy eventually relented, sniggering himself, Harry didn’t care one bit. That was definitely worth it.

“You’re such a dickhead, Scarhead _ ,”  _ Malfoy sighed eventually, throwing one last pillow in his general direction and missing by miles. 

“Takes one to know one, Malfoy,” he grinned—and oh, did he relish the ever-outraged expression on the pillock’s face; it was almost criminally easy to rile him up.

“I don’t know why I bother with you,” Malfoy sniffed, trying to stick his nose in the air to cover the fact that he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips.

“Because I’m brilliant, that’s why,” he smirked.

“A brilliant tool, maybe,” Malfoy deadpanned, lips immediately stretching into a wonderful smile as Harry abandoned himself to laughter once more. But as his laughs slowly died to happy smiles, Malfoy cocked his head to one side, slightly, silver eyes watching him carefully, instantly making him tense again. 

“So, does the brilliant Saviour, the valiant Gryffindor Lion, not like it when his fans call his scarred face handsome?” 

By way of an answer, Harry grimaced, stomach twisting violently as he fought the urge to shudder.

“How come?” Malfoy’s voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it—gentle, and completely genuine—and as all the frustration, the confusion, and the damn pain from the last few hours coursed through him once more, it was utterly impossible to resist.

“It’s just not  _ me!”  _ he blurted, suddenly up, pacing as he ranted. “I’m not that strong, brave, attractive…  _ Man  _ they think I am! I’m just… Me… Just Harry! I don’t—I don’t want gifts, or people trying to change their haircut to be more like me! Why would you do that?! I’m a scrawny git that just had the worst luck in the world and managed to cast a fucking disarming spell at the right time!” He punched an armchair as he passed.

“It just happened to be me that the stupid prophecy was about, but do you know what? It could have been Neville, too. That’s right! Neville Bloody Longbottom could have been the slayer of the stupid shithead, because his birthday is around the same time as mine! But no, fucking Voldemort chose me! And because they chose me, I now have to deal with this shit, this—this  _ parade  _ of stupid expectations and gratitude, just because I was the only one who was allowed to kill the fucker, but do you know what? I’M JUST A TEENAGER!” he yelled. “I’m not  _ special!  _ Or—or  _ better  _ than anyone else! I’m rude, I’m a prick to my friends and others—I hit a fucking Hufflepuff with my bag earlier and didn’t even bat a fucking eyelid! Who gives a fuck if I look good—which, before you go on about my enlarged head, I don’t think I do—when that’s the way I treat people? Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?!”

With a final exasperated sigh, Harry collapsed into the nearest chair, glaring viciously into the fire, ignoring the steady, hot gaze that watched his every move.

“I mean, I’m not disagreeing,” Malfoy murmured after a moment, his ever cocky voice calming his frayed nerves just the tiniest bit. “You are just a random person with awful hair, terrible glasses, and absolutely appalling taste in clothes and friends.”

Harry snorted, shooting a half-hearted glare at the prick.

“But just getting annoyed at it won’t change anything. Do you have any idea what you’d like them to refer to you as?”

“How the fuck would I know that, Malfoy?” he all but yelled, hands immediately reaching to tug at his hair. “I didn’t even know I didn’t like being called handsome until about five hours ago!”

“Alright, alright, don’t lose your shit, Potter, I was only asking, jeez!” Malfoy puffed his cheeks out, slowly letting out a breath as Harry tried to take a steadier breath. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I just—”

“—Overreacted, like always, Potter. I know, I’m used to it by now.” He rolled his eyes as Harry slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Do you want to think about it?” Malfoy asked. Harry blinked.

“Er…” His brow furrowed. “Well, I mean, I don’t mind, but how? I don’t know how to go about this stuff.” He shrugged helplessly.

“But I do.” 

As grey eyes stared into his with absolute certainty, Harry swallowed, nodding, an odd sensation of excitement and apprehension fluttering in his stomach.

“Excellent. Okay, so what if instead of calling you handsome, they called you ‘cute’? Or ‘fit’? How would that make you feel?— _ Not  _ that you are, of course,” he rushed to add with a horrified look. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry sighed, considering for a second before wrinkling his nose. 

“Do they  _ have  _ to comment on my looks?” he asked; but as Malfoy simply stared at him as if he was stupid, he knew he might as well be talking to his big toe. Of course they did.

“It’s  _ The Prophet,  _ Potter. Don’t say such stupid things. Now, think about it.”

“Yessir,” Harry muttered, giving a mock salute as Malfoy preened at the term—the dickhead. 

“Well…” He grimaced slightly. “It’s not  _ as  _ bad, I suppose?—though if my aunt heard anyone call me cute she’d probably shriek until she was blue in the face.”

“Understandably,” Malfoy smirked, sniggering softly as Harry stuck his middle finger up at him.

“Okay, next question. What about if, instead of calling you a boy, or a man, or a bloke, they just called you ‘the Saviour’, or ‘the one who lived’?”

“As if they’d ever do that,” Harry immediately scoffed, just a tad bitterly. But even as the words left his mouth, and Malfoy rolled his eyes  _ yet again  _ at him, the mere suggestion that he might not be gendered sent relief flooding through him; like there was less pressure somehow, less of a weight in his chest and on his shoulders. He blinked under Malfoy’s knowing gaze.

“Well… I… Er—”

“—Or,” Malfoy continued, just the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What if instead of saying something like ‘Find out how close your eye colour is to his’ they said ‘Find out how close your eye colour is to  _ theirs’ _ ?” 

Immediately, Harry’s breath caught, the word reverberating in his mind.

_ Theirs.  _

There was no gender, no expectation, no strict definition; just pure  _ freedom. _ Slowly, Harry met Malfoy’s eyes, heart thumping wildly as joy, hope, and a tentative yet overwhelming sense of  _ rightness  _ drowned every other sensation, obliterating the belt that permanently squeezed the air from Harry’s lungs.

“S—say… Say that again?” Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly bone dry as each individual strand of hair suddenly stood on end under Malfoy’s silver gaze.

“Harry Potter,” he began, voice low, rich, and deliberate, sending tingles everywhere around Harry’s body. “The One Who Lived. The Chosen One. Let’s debunk the top 10 Myths about Them. Find out Which is Their Favourite Flavour of Ice Cream...”

Fireworks exploded in Harry’s chest as a grin so wide his—no,  _ their _ —cheeks began to hurt, bloomed on their face. 

“Yes,” they breathed as Malfoy gave them another rare, genuine smile that sent another jolt of warmth through them. “Yes, that’s… That’s it!” 

“N’aww, don’t you look like a Niffler in a pile of gold, Scarhead,” the prick smirked. But as warmth enveloped Harry from every angle, they could only laugh helplessly, drowning entirely in bliss.

“I—It’s…  _ Amazing _ , Malfoy… It’s like, everything has just been okay. Like doing school work because you have to, but not because you want to; like I’ve just been going through the motions. But this is like…  _ Flying! _ Like the first time I sat on a broom and watched the world disappear. Like it’s exciting, and fresh, and  _ right,  _ and I can  _ breathe,  _ and… Fuck, I don’t know if this makes any sense, I don’t know how to say it…” 

“I’m shocked!” Malfoy teased. “You’ve always been so eloquent, after all.” 

“Fuck you!” they laughed again, a loud, free, life-giving laugh. As silver eyes rested on them, silently dancing above that wonderful smile, Harry practically jigged in their seat.

“I’m happy for you, not-a-boy Scarhead,” Malfoy murmured, as another thrill of pleasure burst in Harry’s chest. “So what are you going to tell people?”

Just like that, the happiness, the flying, the utter bliss came screeching to a halt. 

“What? Tell people, why would I—? How would I—?” 

Immediately the band was back, tighter than ever before, and getting tighter still as Harry stared horrified at Malfoy’s ridiculously calm face, as they suddenly fought for breath. 

“Malfoy, I can’t—! They’ll— I don’t— _ Shit! _ ” they gasped, running a hand through their hair as Malfoy’s face quickly morphed into a mask of terror, too.

“Shit, Potter, um—” He paused, staring around helplessly as words actually failed him for once. 

“Um, calm down,” he ordered, flushing violently as he clutched at the armchair he was sat in.

“Oh yeah,” Harry gasped, “That really h—helps, you— _ hhh! _ —fucker!”

“I’m sorry!” Malfoy exclaimed, voice two pitches higher than it should be. At any other time, Harry would have laughed at him. “I didn’t know that would freak you out! What do I do? Do you want me to go get Weasley? I’ll go get him, he’ll know what to do, stay there!”

“No!” Harry managed, gulping another breath in as thankfully Malfoy stopped. “Just— _ hhh! _ —shut up— _ fuck _ —gimme—” They gasped again. “Gimme a minute.”

As Malfoy nervously perched back on the edge of his chair, chewing his lip viciously, Harry closed their eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of flying, of being free, of anything happy, to get their breathing back under control. 

It wasn’t easy. 

But, as Harry somehow replayed the memory of the first time they caught the Snitch—the shock, the joy, the triumph—slowly, the belt loosened, ever so slightly, and they managed to take some steadier breaths. As each breath gradually became easier, slowly, carefully, they opened their eyes, finding Malfoy in the exact same position, perched on the edge of his seat, shoulders raised and tense, and lips so worried he’d almost broken the skin. Though the wings of anxiety still fluttered in Harry’s chest, as they let out their steadiest breath yet, and finally found their voice again, they knew the worst was over.

“Fuck…” they breathed, slowly stretching the tight muscles in their neck, back, and arms. Malfoy didn’t move, eyes still fixed wearily on them. Harry sighed. “I’m alright, Malfoy, it’s okay…”

“Of course you are, Potter, I know that,” he muttered, giving a slight nod.

Harry rolled their eyes.

“Well, tell your face, because it sure looks like it doesn’t.”

As Malfoy frowned, but gave a weak eye-roll, a wave of exhaustion so strong they had to hold onto the chair they were sitting in suddenly rolled over Harry.

“Sorry I made you panic,” Malfoy’s voice cut through the darkness that threatened to claim them right there and then. Summoning every ounce of strength they had left, they pulled the best smile they could muster onto their face, throwing Malfoy’s own words back at him. 

“Oh shut up, stop being such a Hufflepuff. Just because I have all night doesn’t mean I want to hear all that drivel.”

“Fuck you, Potter.” Malfoy squared his shoulders again, lifting his chin arrogantly as Harry refused to let the tiredness wipe the smile from their face. 

“Seriously though.” They caught those still worried silver eyes. “It’s fine, Draco. I would have thought about it sooner or later—telling people, I mean. But I was just... enjoying the feeling for a minute, so it took me by surprise, that’s all…” They paused, considering, as Malfoy waited silently. 

“Telling people is something I’m  _ definitely  _ not ready for yet—I don’t even know what liking being referred to as ‘they’ or ‘them’ means… How can I tell someone if I don’t know what that means?”

"You’ll figure something out, Scarhead. You’re like a Hippogriff with a ferret—stubborn, belligerent, and determined.”

Harry snorted as Draco smiled slightly.

“But it’s okay not to know what you are. It’s a part of questioning, of exploring and learning who you are. And it’s also okay if you find a label that you think is right for you for a while, and then realise that actually, a completely different one fits you better,” Draco said, eyes suddenly sparkling with earnest, forcing Harry to nod, to try and file away the information for later, suddenly sure they’d need it. 

“Though, of course, if you wanted to do some research, it wouldn’t hurt, and I know that there are several books in the library that—”

"—You sound like Hermione…" Harry groaned, definitely too tired to hear another lecture. A small smile crept onto Malfoy's face.

"Good. Maybe one of these days someone will actually be able to get through that thick skull of yours that opening a book is a good thing!"

"I open books!" Harry protested in a weak imitation of an indignant tone as Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “They make comfy pillows!"

"Oh for…" Malfoy swore, the final hint of tension leaving his shoulders as Harry sniggered. "You really are a twat, Scarhead."

"Thanks Malfoy, that's possibly the nicest thing you've ever said to me!" they grinned before suddenly a jaw-cracking yawn overtook them.

"Don't start me off, you prat…" Malfoy grumbled, hiding behind his hood to yawn himself. As the first streaks of sunlight began creeping across the common room ceiling, Harry watched Malfoy’s eyes stray towards the dorms, hunger flickering in them. 

“Good idea, Malfoy,” Harry murmured, though neither of them had said a word. “I think sleeping through double transfiguration is just what’s needed. And if I can’t sleep now, I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to..." they mumbled, the thought of their warm, soft duvet filling their mind. 

"Mm... me too…" Malfoy sighed, curling tighter in his seat for some inexplicable reason, and honestly sounding like he was half-asleep already—which he probably was to agree to missing any subject, let alone one with McGonagall; everyone knew he was terrified of her. 

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry murmured, hauling themselves to their feet and swaying dangerously for a second, as the mound of soft green material very helpfully watched them, making no effort to offer them any support. 

“Or do you want all the others to wake up and find you here?” 

Immediately, Malfoy tumbled to his feet, muttering disgruntled curses about stupid Gruffindorks having good points and the need for it to be illegal as Harry laughed quietly, already making their way towards the stairs.

“Um.” They paused, turning to look back at the most dishevelled and rumpled Malfoy Harry had ever seen in their life, an odd swoop suddenly capturing their stomach. “Thanks for the help, Draco,” they murmured. “At least I can tell Hermione I’ve made some progress now.” 

Soft, sleepy eyes twinkled at them.

“Your welcome, Scarhead.” A gentle smile graced Malfoy’s lips. “Don’t think too hard though, I don’t want to wake up to a bomb site,” the prick smirked.

“Oh fuck off,” Harry whined, trying and failing to shove the prick’s shoulder, and instead succeeding in managing to unbalance themselves, much to Malfoy’s amusement.

“I’ll get you for that!” they pouted, deciding it was  _ definitely  _ time to stumble up the stairs.

“Of course you will, Scarhead. Of course you will.”

As they both sniggered once more, and Draco began climbing up the stairs behind them, Harry let out a sigh of sheer contentment, happier than they had been in far too long. Finally collapsing into bed, Harry stretched, one last time, relishing each gentle caress of the quilt against their skin, as the sound of Malfoy groaning in pleasure as he face planted his own punctuated the snores of their dorm-mates. Grinning, Harry whispered, “Night, Draco.” 

“Night, Scarhead,” came the reply not a moment later. And with a final, happy sigh, Harry let their eyes slip closed for the final time that night, the echoes of Malfoy’s voice saying ‘they’, ‘them’ and ‘their’ sending warmth through them as sleep finally claimed them. 


	4. Chapter 4

Despite only managing to snatch five hours sleep before Hermione’s bushy hair point-blank refused to leave Harry’s personal space—not until thoroughly convinced by several loud groans and huffs that Harry really  _ was  _ getting up now—Harry didn’t mind one bit.

As clothes were shoved haphazardly on, the sun seemed just a little brighter. As Ron pulled a slightly squashed bacon sandwich out of his bag and Harry scarfed it on the way to Care of Magical Creatures, the sky seemed just a little bit bluer. And as friends moaned and groaned about the piles of homework they still had to do, dreading the amount they’d have by the end of the day, Harry couldn’t help but smile, feeling infinitely lighter than in the last few weeks.. 

As everyone else wandered about their day as usual, dragging their heels or dawdling in the corridors, Harry practically floated around the castle, as if hopping from one fluffy cloud to another. Unstoppable. Like there was no limit. Even as the morning edition of  _ The Prophet  _ yelled the newest round of absolute bollocks in Harry’s face, the sensation of freedom—of utter  _ joy _ —that had fluttered in Harry’s chest for a brief moment the previous night spread anew, refusing to even falter. All thanks to two simple words.

They/Them. 

Any time they saw the word ‘boy’ being used in reference to them, or ‘he’, or ‘handsome’, Draco’s words from earlier that morning came back to them, whispering in their ear to change it. ‘Boy’ became ‘One’ or ‘Saviour’; ‘he’ or ‘him’ became ‘they’ or ‘them’; and ‘sexy’, ‘masculine’ or ‘handsome’ were all changed to ‘cute’. Suddenly, miraculously, the very same headlines that would have sent them flying off the handle, sent thrills of excitement through them, as they explored the fit of their new pronouns, the utter comfort they inspired. And if every time Harry changed a word they thought the replacement in Draco’s voice, that was just because he’d been the one to say it that morning—the weird sensation in their stomach meant nothing. They were sure of it. 

Of course, the one time that Harry was actually in an actively good mood, no-one seemed to notice. Ron and Hermione were deep in stage two of the silent treatment, which meant they were actively speaking to anyone besides each other, trying their best to piss the other off that  _ little  _ bit more, all because Ron had accidentally knocked over a tower of Hermione’s notes. Seamus and Dean were too wrapped up in each other’s arms to notice anything going on, and Neville and Ginny were desperately trying (and failing) to escape having yet more words shoved down their throat by Ron and Hermione. But for once, Harry didn’t care. For the first time in ages, they were happy—actually happy—and  _ nothing  _ was going to ruin it. Especially not when grey eyes followed every movement they made. 

As soon as Harry caught up with the rest of the class gathering outside Hagrid’s hut, they felt them: the tired yet interested gaze that set the hairs on the back of their neck prickling. It was so familiar, and yet so different, having those eyes follow them again; gone was the venom, the spite, the suspicion and hate, but still excitement coursed through Harry’s veins, setting their heart racing. Now, as the wind ruffled Harry’s hair gently, and the last of the October sun shone down on them, Draco’s eyes warmed them to the core, sent shivers down their spine, and ignited new sparks of happiness. Now, they flooded Harry’s mind with memories of that morning. Of Draco’s soft, patient voice. The rare, brilliant, genuine smiles. The stupid laughter, so happy and so utterly ridiculous that Harry almost wished they could bottle it to keep for a rainy day. The absolute ease of it all, like it was just as simple as breathing… 

It was thrilling. It was intoxicating. And it was addictive. Just as always, the idiot’s attention was completely irresistible, and whenever the tell-tale warmth settled on Harry’s neck, sending a shiver through them, they grinned, helplessly drawn to the git, desperately trying to catch his eye—to catch him in the act. Somehow, of course, the sly Slytherin bastard managed to avoid them every time, but more than once they caught the hints of a smile hiding behind a hastily lifted book, or the twinkle of interest—of laughter—in his eyes as Draco suddenly attempted to start a conversation with Goyle or Parkinson, both of whom were actually wrestling with their baby Golden Snidget chicks, much like they should have been. 

As time ticked on, and Harry and completely failed to build a better nest for the poor Snidget he’d been assigned as part of the breeding program Hagrid had signed up for, Harry found themselves itching for the end of the lesson, for the long walk back up to the castle, and the start of Defense Against the Dark Arts, purely to see if Draco would talk to them. Just the thought of the pointy git appearing in their vision brought a stupid smile to their face.

It was that smile that eventually drew Ron’s attention back to them and off of his girlfriend, who was still blatantly ignoring him and walking with Dean and Seamus back towards the castle for Defense Against the Dark Arts. As Draco’s blond hair shimmered in the sun just a few metres ahead of them, Ron’s voice pulled them back to the present.

“‘Ere mate, you seem to be in a good mood.” He cocked his head to one side slightly. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“I am,” Harry smiled, incapable of stopping their eyes from straying back to Draco, wondering if he could hear. “I… Realised something last night, and it’s helped with dealing with stuff. A lot, actually…” Their cheeks heated slightly, stomach swooping all over again as Ron, supportive as ever, beamed and clapped them on the back.

“That’s brilliant! What was it?” 

“Well, I… I don’t really know how to explain it because I don’t know the proper words yet—apparently I still need to go to the library.” They rolled their eyes, drawing a chuckle from his best friend. 

“But, well,” they paused, then dropped their voice as a group of fourth years known to swoon at their feet walked in the opposite direction, all batting their eyelashes. 

“You know Hermione was talking about the gender stuff?” 

Ron nodded; Harry took a deep breath. 

“Well, apparently you don’t have to use the same pronouns that we’ve all been brought up with.” They paused again, catching the baffled look creeping onto Ron’s face once more. “I know,” they grinned. “My head just about exploded last night, trust me. But basically, we all use he or she, and him or her, right?” 

Ron nodded. 

“Well, I think, if I’ve understood right, that some people use gender neutral pronouns, like ‘they’ or ‘them’.” They paused, taking a deep breath, nerves starting to flutter in their stomach, their chest. “So basically, instead of saying ‘he rode his broomstick’, they’d be more comfortable saying ‘they rode their broomstick’. Does that make sense?” After a moment, Ron nodded. “Okay, good. Well…” Their breath caught in their throat slightly. “After that conversation with Hermione last night, my head was spinning and I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the common room and Draco was there—” 

“Malfoy?” Ron raised an eyebrow with a look on his face that Harry definitely didn’t want to think about for too long.

“Er, yeah, he couldn’t sleep either.” Harry scrubbed the back of their neck as they rounded the corner into the castle, and began walking through the halls to DADA. “So, he asked what was going on and I told him some of the stuff that had been happening, and some of the things Hermione had said and, well.” Harry tried to swallow the lump in their throat. “He asked how I’d feel if  _ I  _ used those pronouns and—” 

They stopped, barely daring to even look at their best friend, but somehow unable to look away at the same time. But as Ron simply nodded, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth as he caught on to where this was going, relief flooded through them, and the breath they’d been holding rushed from their lips, chased by the smile suddenly stretching across their lips. 

“And something just—just  _ clicked.  _ I just—I got this, like, rush? Of adrenaline? And it felt…  _ Amazing…  _ And I honestly don’t know what that means other than I’m not a boy, and I don’t like being referred to as ‘he’ or ‘him’, but I don’t care, because it’s  _ brilliant _ ,” they breathed. “Does that even make sense?”

“Yeah!” Ron grinned, throwing an arm around their shoulders and squeezing tight as Harry huffed another laugh, hugging back. “I mean, well, it makes  _ some  _ sense—” he said, holding the door for Harry as they finally reached the classroom. “Like, I haven’t got a bloody clue about any of the gender stuff that Hermione was talking about last night, and I have  _ no idea  _ what gender you are, or could be, if you’re comfortable being referred to as ‘they’ or ‘them’, but it makes sense that you’re uncomfortable being referred to as a boy and ‘they/them’ is neutral so it feels better. I’m sure I’ll get my head around it all eventually, but at the moment, that’s what I understand. And as long as you’re okay with me getting completely confused and needing you or Hermione to explain things to me a million times, that’s fine by me—Is that okay?” 

As they finally took their seats in the DADA classroom, and a worried frown suddenly settled over Ron’s eyes, Harry’s heart soared, unable—and unwilling—to fight the grin blooming on their face.

“Sounds perfect,” they said, laughing as Ron hugged them again.

“That’s great, mate. I’m really happy for you,” he grinned. Then, “It’s good to have my best friend back again.”

Harry grinned.

“It’s good to be back.”

*

Though it felt like the lesson had only just started, before they knew it, the bell for lunch was ringing, and bags were hastily being collected from where they’d been strewn haphazardly in a corner, out of the way of potential mishaps from the nonverbal spells they were practising. Harry really had focused, this lesson, managing to send Ron jumping back a good foot with their nonverbal Knockback Jinx, but still they’d found their eyes straying towards Draco, smiling as they’d watched Draco’s hair falling loose around his face, his brow creasing in concentration, and his eyes honing in on his target, hyper-focused. From the tingles that had occasionally shivered down their spine, Harry was sure they were still being watched too, and just as before, each linger of a gaze had their heart quickening, though still they didn’t manage to catch the bastard’s eye.

Lunch was a different story, though; as easy banter ran up and down the Gryffindor table, laughing about Seamus’ latest explosion and George’s new prototypes for the joke shop, Harry finally turned their head, just by accident, to greet Ginny as she joined the group with Luna, and caught silver eyes staring openly, all the way across the Great Hall. Even from such a distance, the soft twinkle of happiness in them made Harry’s breath catch in their throat—especially as Draco quickly dropped his gaze, cheeks glowing a gentle pink.

“Harry?” a voice called from somewhere that sounded like miles away. “Harry!” 

But Harry wasn’t listening. Harry was sniggering to themselves. Harry was relishing the feel of joy in their chest. Harry was  _ happy,  _ and they were just enjoying themselves. Even as the bell sounded, warning them of the impending doom that was Double Potions, the smile wouldn’t leave Harry’s face. 

“Do we have to go?” Ron grumbled, trudging down the steps towards the dungeons.

“Just think—we’ve got Quidditch practice after this,” Harry said, watching the gloom lift ever-so-slightly from his best mate’s face.

“Well, that is something…” He nodded half-heartedly.

“And I’m sure Hermione will start talking to you soon.” Harry bumped Ron’s shoulder, earning themselves a sad laugh.

“I dunno, mate, she was pretty mad. And I wasn’t exactly sympathetic at arse o’clock in the morning.”

Harry laughed, picturing their best friend’s face all too well after seven years of sharing a dorm.

“I’m sure,” they chuckled. “Look, just do your homework after Quidditch practice and offer to read a Muggle story with her before bed; I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Though Ron still didn’t look convinced as they rounded the final corner, Slughorn stood ready and waiting for them, instructions already written on the board and ingredients already laid out ready for collection, leaving no more room for discussion as they set about grappling with the first stage of brewing for Veritaserum. 

It was complicated, finicky, and long, and with every step, Harry remembered just why they hated Potions. Sure, Snape had been a complete and utter bastard, but the subject was still atrocious, even without him breathing down their neck. But, thanks to the difficult steps, a certain blond boy managed to actually slip their mind for a few moments. Which, apparently, as the git in question popped up in front of their cauldron, was completely unacceptable. As Ron immediately tensed, then paused and stepped back slightly, Harry’s heart jumped at the glint in those silver eyes. 

“Hey, Draco.” They smiled openly. “Come to gloat about your potion compared to ours?”

“Of course,” the bastard smirked. "But now you've made it so obvious it's not nearly as fun, Scarhead."

"Oh, good!" They grinned, throwing in the final Jobberknoll feather. Vaguely, Harry registered Ron narrowing his eyes and looking between them, but then Draco snorted, distracting them.

"I hear the team's practising later, Potter. Ready for us to beat you on Saturday?"

"As if, Malfoy! You couldn't beat us if you tried!" Ron immediately protested, at the same time that Harry exclaimed: "You wish!" 

"Your team's fallen apart since Flint left," Ron scoffed, suddenly standing directly beside them once more, drawn up to his full height. "And you've never managed to catch the Snitch when Harry's playing—"

"Yeah! And if you think anything’s going to change that now, Malfoy, you're—"

"You're touched in the head!" 

The fire of challenge burned in Harry’s eyes, as they and Ron stood, shoulders squared, staring down the bastard. But whereas once, Draco's lips would have threatened to curl into a sneer, or his eyes would have been cold and cutting, now the easy smirk widened, an equally evil, challenging glint glimmering in his eyes.

"We’ll see about that, Gryffindorks,” he murmured dangerously. “But until then, remember that even if I am ‘touched in the head’, as you say, at least I'm not so stupid I let myself get distracted and burn my potion."

"What are you—? Oh  _ bollocks! _ " Ron swore. 

As hissing suddenly caught Harry’s attention, steam, thick and fast, rose from the cauldron, large bubbles forming on the surface of the liquid. As the last instruction to not let the potion boil circled in Harry’s head again, they cursed, jumping up to help Ron clear up the mess as the flames were hastily extinguished beneath the cauldron. All the while, Draco stood watching, sniggering away to himself.

“We’ll get you for that, you prick!” Ron glowered, jumping back as the mixture threatened to boil over. But as Draco’s eyes danced with mirth, Harry found themselves grinning too.

“Let him have this one, Ron,” they said, flashing a smug smile at the prick. “We’ll whoop his ass so hard on Saturday he won’t be able to sit down for a week, don’t worry.” 

As Ron grinned in agreement, however, asking for a high-five Harry gladly gave, Draco simply raised an eyebrow, a cocky smile toying with his lips.

“Is that a promise, Scarhead?”

“Ugh!” Ron gagged as Harry’s chin hit the floor, cheeks flaming.

“Wha—Er—Uh—” Harry spluttered as Draco lifted his chin in victory. Before they could recover, Draco was grinning dangerously again. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Potter,” he warned, turning to slowly saunter away. 

“See you around,” he paused, making sure to meet Harry’s eyes, “Scarhead.” 

And though Harry’s cheeks were still burning, and Ron was still staring after him in absolute horror, another ripple of excitement ran through them, a stupid grin slipping onto their face. 

“I need to be obliviated…” Ron moaned weakly as Harry finally tore their eyes from the bastard. “I’m scarred, I tell you, Harry,  _ scarred!” _

“Come off it,” Harry sniggered, trying to focus on adding the last of the Sopophorous beans as Ron groaned again. “He’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Ron repeated in disbelief, ears pinkening as he worked himself up.  _ “Not that bad?!  _ Harry! He just practically asked to be flogged by you—and promised to enjoy it!—in the middle of potions! If that’s not  _ bad  _ then I don’t know what is!”

“It was just a joke!” Harry exclaimed, still chuckling. “Honestly, Ron, it’s no big deal!”

“No big deal?!” Ron repeated again, voice at least a pitch higher than usual. “Mate, don’t you  _ hear yourself?!  _ He just propositioned you, and you’re  _ smiling!  _ You’re—you’re laughing! And grinning, and bloody blushing like one of your teenage fans seeing you for the first time! You’re  _ loving  _ it! It’s a  _ huge  _ deal. You’ve gone from hating each other and stalking one another, to  _ flirting  _ and watching each other like hawks, and grinning like idiots as if no one can see you! It’s like I’m watching a bloody mating display!”

“No you’re not!” Harry laughed aloud, seriously wondering if Ron had whacked his head recently. “We’re just friends!  _ Good  _ friends, Ron. He’s just having a laugh, that’s all; you’ll get used to his humour soon enough.” He grinned. 

“Oh I’ll get used to it alright,” Ron grumbled, turning back to their final ingredients. “I’ll have plenty of time once you stop denying everything and shack up together—I’ll come down in the morning to find you two all snuggled up together on the bloody sofa—or worse! In bed together!”

“You won’t find us in  _ bed  _ together, you—”

“Merlin’s pants, I hope you hurry up and figure it out soon, I don’t know how much more I can take of this flirting—” 

“We aren’t flirting!” Harry exclaimed, hopefully for the final time.

“It’s sickening—”

“ _ How _ is being friendly sick—” 

“ _ Time’s up, Potioneers!”  _ Slughorn chortled through the steam, effectively stopping the argument as Ron continued to moan to himself—the idiot. But even as new arguments sprang to his tongue, ready to convince Ron that Draco was just a friend, Slughorn called for their samples to be decanted and placed on his desk, and the final bell rang for the day.

“This  _ isn’t  _ over,” he muttered as he stoppered the potion for Slughorn.

“Believe me,  _ I know,”  _ Ron groaned, looking so tortured he reminded Harry of Draco in Third Year, weeping over his ‘wounded’ arm. 

‘ _ Who knew Ron could be as dramatic as Draco?’  _ Harry thought, snickering to themselves, just a little. 

With that comforting thought in mind, Harry joined the rest of their classmates in packing up their things, and turned their focus to the prospect of Quidditch, managing to emerge from the dungeons with Ron five minutes later into blissfully steam free air, without another word about Draco or flirting. In fact, as they both practically ran to the changing rooms, threw on their leathers, and jumped on their brooms, they barely chatted about anything other than the upcoming practice, what drills they needed to run, and how good the conditions were for practice. It wasn’t until a few hours later as they sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, scarfing down dinner after a very successful, refreshing practice, that his name came up again.

“You seem happy.” Hermione suddenly appeared, sitting opposite Harry and Ron with marginally more warmth in her eyes than Harry had seen all day. As she passed Ron a plate of eclairs and ice cream whilst resolutely looking anywhere but his face, Harry smiled; the third and final stage of the silent treatment had begun. After a day—or possibly longer—of sulking and trying to wind the other up, both Hermione and Ron would eventually realise that basically they’d forgiven each other, and probably couldn’t even remember why they were fighting in the first place. But that didn’t mean they were ready to let their petty fight go just yet. So, instead of just kissing and making up, they both ignored and doted on each other, in the weirdest, most exasperating ways possible. Harry was certain that no-one else could ever pull off a relationship like them, and though they obviously never liked it when their friends bickered, they couldn’t deny that watching Hermione holding Ron’s hand whilst ignoring him completely wasn’t amusing. 

“I am happy,” Harry smiled, enjoying watching her trying to figure out what was different as the excitement to tell her mounted in their chest.

“Did something happen?” she asked. But as they took a breath, relishing their complete lack of nerves, Ron opened his big stupid mouth.

“Yeah, Harry flirted with Malfoy and looked as happy as a pig in muck for it. They’ll be boyfriends soon—OW!” he exclaimed as Harry kicked him hard in the shin. 

“No I didn’t, and no we won’t,” they insisted quickly, ignoring Hermione’s raised eyebrow and lips twitching in amusement. 

“But something else happened.” They smiled. “I, uh, figured some stuff out, kind of.” And as Hermione nodded eagerly, devoting her full attention to them, Harry happily filled her in, their heart soaring once more as Hermione basically bounced in her seat. 

“Oh, Harry, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms around their neck so fast that Harry got a mouthful of hair. But just as quickly as she’d attacked, she receded, fishing in her bag for something. Another quill and piece of parchment, in fact. As she eagerly poised it over the parchment, Harry’s heart sank.

“Now,” she began as Harry sent a worried look Ron’s way. “I want to know everything! Do you know what you are? Have you done any research? Are you going to work on it in the library today? Are there any words that aren’t explicitly masculine that you don’t like? Are you—”

But as the questions kept coming, the familiar claws of anxiety clutched at them once more, invisible pressure crushing them from every angle, tightening their chest, constricting their throat, and once again, Harry found themselves fighting not to gasp.

“Whoa, ‘Mione!” Ron interrupted, squeezing a warm hand to Harry’s shoulder as they tried and failed to find anything to distract themselves, breath hitching despite their best efforts. 

“Don’t bury them! You’ll give him—I mean them—sorry Harry—a heart attack!” 

“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione gushed, shoving the quill away as quickly as she could. 

“Ss fi—fine,” they murmured unsteadily, giving her a weak smile as Ron’s hand rubbed gentle circles on their back.

“S’alright, mate, just relax, we don’t care if you know or if you don’t, you’re still our Harry, and you always will be. Right, Hermione? Yeah, that’s it, mate, just breathe.” 

Clinging to Ron’s words, to the warmth from his hand, to the fact that they were safe, really, no matter what the panic said, Harry forced themselves to close their eyes, block out the sound of everyone else, the weight and pressure of expectation, and just breathed. And gradually, as the knowledge that their friends accepted them no matter what, and the unmistakable sound of a plate of treacle tart was shoved in front of them by Hermione, making them laugh, the tightness finally eased.

“Sorry…” they breathed, finally opening their eyes and finding themselves staring directly into Hermione’s. 

“No, Harry,  _ I’m  _ sorry,” she rushed, hand reaching out to squeeze theirs tightly. “I shouldn’t have just dumped all those questions on you like that. I should have realised—”

“It’s fine.” They smiled, more genuinely now. Then, before Hermione could say anything else, they added, “It’s natural for you to want to know everything—you wouldn’t be my best friend if you didn’t know everything about anything.” They grinned as Hermione blushed slightly and Ron laughed and nodded. 

“But, I’m not like that,” Harry continued, desperately shoving away all thoughts of research before the panic could consume them again. “This, right now? It's terrifying. I have no idea what this means, whether it’s good or bad, whether this is even going to be real in a few days, or whether this just me hating being called ‘boy’ because of my stupid uncle, or—or anything.” They sighed, running a hand through their hair, trying to find the words to explain as Hermione nodded but hid her confusion a second too late. 

“It’s like… Like Pandora’s box!” A wave of inspiration hit them. “Once I’ve opened it—this box of information on gender—there’s no going back. And, opening it might be great, it might be the best thing I’ve ever done, and I might love everything. But… It might not be. It might not answer everything, and it might be a mistake, and then I’ll just feel hopeless—or worse! Everything could  _ suddenly  _ make sense, could suddenly need to be a certain way for me to be happy, and then I’d have to figure out what to do with the press and that means going public and—and how to handle this with the bloody vultures at  _ The Prophet, Witch Weekly,  _ and every other bloody news agency breathing down my neck. Plus, what would the public say? You said that not many wizards and witches know that there are different gender identities—well what if they take it badly? I can’t deal with any backlash right now. I’m hardly what you’d call stable—only yesterday I practically used a Hufflepuff as a bowling pin!” they sighed as Ron chuckled despite himself.

“So I just—I think I need to enjoy this for now, and then I’ll handle everything else when I’m ready.  _ If  _ I’m ready. Is that—Does that make sense? Is that okay?” Desperately meeting their friends’ eyes as they finally paused long enough to draw breath, nerves fluttered in Harry’s chest for all of two milliseconds before Hermione launched herself across the table once more, crushing them into another hug. And as Ron’s arms encircled them both, Harry’s throat tightened once more, this time for a whole different reason. 

“Of course it’s okay, mate,” Ron murmured above them as Hermione squeezed him tightly.

“We understand, Harry,” she added. “Take your time. Just know we’re here to help if you want it, okay?” 

“Yeah, whatever you need, mate!”

As everyone else in the Great Hall laughed and joked, yelling loudly around them, Harry simply smiled, once again wondering what on earth they’d do without such incredible friends.

”Thanks, guys,” they murmured, once they finally stopped clinging to one another.

“Anytime, mate. Anytime.” Ron grinned, popping an eclair in his mouth, reminding Harry of their treacle tart. 

They’d barely put the first forkful in their mouth, however, when Hermione asked, “So what was that you said about Harry and Malfoy flirting again, Ron?” 

“Oh ‘Mione,” Ron all but wailed as Harry immediately sighed, resigned themselves to at least an hour of hell. “I’m scarred,  _ scarred  _ I tell you!”

As Ron regaled Hermione with a much embellished version of the events in Potions that afternoon—that he somehow managed to drag out for the entire time it took them both to finish their dessert and wander back to the common room, much to Harry’s displeasure—Harry groaned, focusing on devouring their treacle tart and making a dozen mental notes to kick Ron’s ass when he was sleeping, all the while trying and failing to interject that they absolutely had  _ not  _ been flirting! 

“Tell them, Hermione. They were practically drooling over each other! If you could have seen them—” Ron flopped down onto the sofa, ears turning a shade darker as Hermione readily nestled in next to him. 

_ ‘Now  _ that’s  _ sickening _ ,’ Harry thought bitterly, not meaning it at all.

“Hermione, he doesn’t know what he’s on about, we’re just friends!”

“Well, I don’t know,” she mused, “you always have been quite… attracted to each other, in a way.”

“In  _ what  _ way?! And don’t say Sixth Year!” they warned, absolutely detesting the knowing grin they shared. “You know what, nevermind!” Harry threw their hands up in the air, pointedly pulling out their homework so as to avoid seeing anymore smug looks—a serious mistake, really, as they missed their eyes widening slightly at another’s approach. 

“I know we’re just friends, but if you want to believe otherwise, then go for it! See if I care!”

Slamming a random book down on the table and flipping it to the first page it readily fell open on, Harry immediately set to reading, only realising it was upside down half-way through the page. With an almighty huff, they turned it, barely registering the lack of response from their friends.

“What if I want to believe we’re otherwise, Scarhead?” a voice murmured, laden with amusement and hubris. But as Harry froze, cheeks suddenly burning and throat as dry as a nun’s crotch, another tone slowly registered; nervousness.

“Draco,” they managed to croak, spinning round to find the git standing just behind them. “I—uh, I—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Potter.” The bastard smirked, the laughter in his eyes not quite masking the apprehension. Heart racing, Harry’s shut their mouth so quickly an audible snap of teeth hitting each other punctuated the air, as Draco took a discreet, deep breath.

“Fancy going to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

As Ron audibly snorted, Hermione whacked him on the arm.

“Li—like a date?” Harry swallowed.

“If you want,” Draco shrugged in the most pitiful attempt of nonchalance Harry had ever seen.

“I—er—” Harry’s stomach swooped, completely destroying their ability to be coherent as both Ron and Hermione’s eyes practically popped out of their heads. But as seconds ticked by and Harry’s mouth refused to obey them, Draco’s face fell.

“Don’t worry, Potter,” he said far too brightly as he turned on his heel.

“Yes,” Harry finally managed, far too quietly, far too late. “I want to come!” 

But as billowing robes swept away, failing to blow away the image of the disappointment in Draco’s eyes now burning in Harry’s mind, and devastation flooded through them, they could only stare helplessly as blond hair retreated, heart plummeting to their stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oi! Malfoy! Wait!” 

Before Harry knew what was happening, Ron was streaking past them, long legs jumping over tables and covering the distance in seconds flat as other students rushed to get out of his path. Catching hold of Draco—very much against his will—Ron began dragging him back towards them.

“What are you doing, Weasel! Unhand me this instant!  _ Desist,  _ you overgrown, ginger nutcase!”

“Shut up, you fucking twat of a ferret, I’m helping you! Harry!” he called as he wrestled the prick closer. “Tell this idiot that you want to go to Hogsmeade before he kills me!”

“You don’t have to pretend, Potter!” Draco sniffed, desperately trying and failing to shake free of Ron’s grip. “Now if you’d just  _ Let. Me. Go!”  _

“As you wish,” Ron grunted, “out of the way, Harry!”

No sooner had they scrambled up out of their chair, than was Draco being unceremoniously dumped in it, thoroughly dishevelled, pissed off, and snarling.

“How  _ dare  _ you,” he spat as Hermione glared at their classmates once again, who happened to be interested in the show, before flicking up a casual privacy charm in case things got loud.

“Manhandling me! Forcing me over here! Practically tearing my  _ robes!  _ You utter oaf! Why couldn’t you just let me—”

“—Harry, I love you, but hurry the fuck up and tell him to stop being stupid? I’m getting a headache from his squawking.”

“Weasley,” Draco all but shrieked as Harry blushed violently but nodded all the same, taking a deep breath as Draco continued. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re blathering on about, but I can assure you I—”

“Draco?” they tried, to no avail, of course.

“—I do  _ not  _ squawk!—”

“—Draco,” they said again, more confident now; but of course, the ponce took no notice.

“—And I am ten times smarter than you, you cretin, so you can just shut your mou—”

“—DRACO!” they yelled, finally shocking the prick into silence for all of a second.

“ _ What,  _ Scarhead?” he demanded, panting furiously as he rounded on them; the sea of anger in his eyes didn’t fool Harry one bit. They took a deep breath.

“I really wanna go to Hogsmeade with you, if you still want to go,” they murmured quietly.

Silence reigned inside their bubble as gorgeous eyes examined his, untrusting, hostile, and devastated. But as Harry stood, willingly baring their soul for the wonderful hurt idiot before them, praying he’d trust them, an adorable series of emotions swirled in Draco’s eyes. One after the other scorn and mistrust melted into doubt, then shock, then hope, and then finally into breathtaking realisation, all the tension seeping out of Draco’s body with one soft breath as his lips formed a gentle ‘O’. For what felt like the millionth time in three days, fireworks exploded in Harry’s chest. 

“Do—do you want to go with me?” Harry asked, voice barely above a whisper as a smile, tentative and soft, nudged its way onto their face. A shadow of the familiar smirk ghosted over Draco’s lips.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to you accompanying me,” he murmured with a slight shrug.

“Why, thank you for such a warm invitation,” Harry snickered, drowning in the pools of grey that glimmered before them.

“You’re welcome, Scarhead. Only the best for you, you know,” Draco smirked. Somewhere behind them, Ron gagged.

“Right, well.” Draco sprang up immediately, cheeks flushing pink all of a sudden as Harry giggled, their own face flaming. “See you at eleven this Saturday, Potter. Don’t be late, and do try and wear something presentable—though I haven’t much hope. Weasley, Granger,” he nodded to them as he passed, “pleasure as always.”

“Bye, Draco,” Hermione called, dispelling the privacy charm with a casual flick of her wand. “Thanks for dropping by!”

Still grinning like a loon, Harry watched as Draco,  _ Draco Sodding Malfoy _ , practically ran across the common room towards the dorms, the flush on his cheeks still blatantly visible, as Harry’s heart performed acrobatics in their chest.

“I think that went quite well, really,” Ron’s voice broke through their reverie after the last swish of robes had disappeared up the stairs. “Alright there, mate?”

Slowly turning back to their friends and sinking back down in their seat, all the while feeling as though they were flying through clouds once more, Harry simply grinned.

“I have a date on Saturday,” they murmured, much to Ron’s amusement. 

“Well, you’d better do all your homework before then, hadn’t you?” Hermione said briskly, pulling a book towards her. “Fancy starting with Potions?” 

But as Ron rolled his eyes, groaning once more, Harry caught the glimmer of amusement in their best friend’s eye, and grinned widely back at her. Whether it was Potions, DADA, or even Divination, they didn’t care; all that mattered was Saturday, when Draco would be going to Hogsmeade with them. It couldn’t come quickly enough.

*

“Harry,” a voice called to them.

“Uhnn…”

“Harry,” it said, more insistent now.

“Mmnnnhhh…”

“Harry! It’s 10:30! You’re going to be late for your date with Malfoy!”

“ _ Fuck!”  _

Never in Harry’s life had they sprung out of bed so fast—and they’d lived with the Dursley’s. 

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?!” they yelled as they sprinted to the bathroom, throwing off clothes in record speed along the way and thanking the gods that Draco always woke early so he wasn’t there to see the state they were in.

“I only just woke up, you bastard,” Ron replied. “Why didn’t you set an alarm?!”

“I forgot!” he yelled over the spray of the shower. 

“Well then just be grateful I woke you up at all!”

Somehow, the rest of the week had actually passed quite quickly—much to Harry’s surprise—and even more amazingly, the euphoria of using ‘they/them’ hadn’t faded. In fact, as more opportunities for their friends to use their new pronouns arose, if anything, the sensation simply got more intense. When Ron had pulled them out of bed the following morning, reassuring Neville that ‘they’re just coming’ when he’d asked if they wanted him to save Harry some food, happiness—so amazing, so violent—had rendered breathing impossible for a full ten seconds. When Luna had laughed at Harry’s scrunched up face as they stared down at their Potions textbook, and had told Hermione to ‘help them before the Frilids drive them insane’, all the muscles in Harry’s body had instantly unclenched, as though every fibre of their being was sighing with relief. And when even  _ Charlie  _ had used the right pronouns during a Floo Call to Ron, saying that Harry ‘will love our newest dragon when they visit!’, Harry’s chest had filled with a hope so powerful, so unexpected, that it had knocked the air from his lungs. 

But the highlight of it all had been knowing that at the end of the week, they were going on a date with Draco. 

And now they were going to be late. 

Despite itching to hurl a few choice replies in Ron’s direction, time was of the essence, and really, somewhere Harry knew that Ron was right. So, with one of the most incredible displays of self-restraint ever shown by them, Harry ducked their head under the water, letting the steady, hot stream drown them instead, before quickly lathering and rinsing their hair. No matter how much the words ‘Do try and be presentable’ ran through their mind, Harry knew that any attempt to style their hair would be an utter disaster, and Draco would still call it a mess, so it just wasn’t worth it. No, it would be far better to spend time actually picking a decent outfit… That was, if they owned one… 

“Well, that was fast,” Neville grinned when less than five minutes later, Harry emerged in a cloud of steam, marching straight over to their trunk and throwing it open, carelessly flinging clothing left and right.

“Yes, that’s because I have copious amounts of time this morning,” Harry all but growled, rooting through for the only semi-respectable shirt they owned. 

“You nervous?” Ron asked, still lounging on his bed.

“Nope—aha!” They tugged out the red, long-sleeved checkered shirt that they’d caught Draco looking at once or twice in the past. “Just very reluctant to get a bollocking on the first date,” they muttered, quickly aiming some deodorant at their armpits and tugging it on. “Now what jeans do I wear?” 

“You never know,” Dean chucked, wandering over to look through the assortment of jeans that had been strewn around. “Malfoy might like to give you a bollocking on the first date.” He waggled his eyebrows. As everyone else groaned in unison and disgust, he cackled, throwing Harry their favourite ripped pair.

“Really?” they asked. “Ripped? Isn’t he a bit too… Proper for that?”

“Trust me,” Dean grinned. “They cup your arse somethin’ lovely, and I’ve seen Malfoy’s mouth practically water when you’ve worn them before. He doesn’t want ‘proper’, Potter.”

“I have… No idea what that’s supposed to mean but—fuck—I haven’t got the time to care. Give ‘em here.”

After digging out a fresh pair of underwear and throwing them on—almost getting them back to front in their haste—Harry quickly yanked them on, hopping all over the dorm with one leg in and one leg out as they headed for the mirror, much to everyone else’s amusement.

“Shit, I should have shaved…” they moaned, taking in the slight shadow around their chin and neck. “There’s no way I can do that in time…”

“Nah, you look rugged,” Dean grinned. “Hot.” 

But as Harry’s insides squirmed at the term, chest tightening, Ron finally hauled himself up, grabbing his wand.

“I can shave you in time; three minutes, tops. That short enough?” 

“Just about,” Harry smiled, practically running to sit on Ron’s bed and filing away a note to self to buy him half the merchandise from Honeydukes. “You’re a lifesaver, Ron.”

“It’s nothing, mate,” he smiled, already leaning forward and lifting their chin. “But keep still and shut up—I don’t want to hand you over to Malfoy having just glued your head back on.” 

Harry stifled a laugh.

“And maybe after watching me shave for five years, you can pay me back by actually learning the damn spell, yeah?”

“Deal,” Harry grinned. 

True to his word, in exactly two minutes and fifty-one seconds, Harry was shaved, dressed, and stood in front of the mirror once more, pointlessly trying to convince their hair to stay in a semi-attractive position. But as the wind whistled outside, promising to ruin any success they actually made in all of two seconds, and the strand they’d just been wrestling with sprang back into its original position yet again anyway, Harry simply sighed, giving up.

“Okay, how do I look?” they asked, standing in the middle of the dorm, sweating under three sets of eyes.

“Good,” Neville smiled.

“Great, mate. You’ve got this.” Ron grinned encouragingly.

“Like you need shoes,” Dean chipped in.

“Fuck,  _ shoes!”  _

Immediately, several pairs of ratty old trainers were thrown overhead in an attempt to find the only pair without holes in—one or two narrowly missing Neville in the process—as once again, their mates burst out laughing before helpfully promising to tidy the mess up before they came back. 

“You know,” Dean grinned again. “Just in case you get that bollocking.”

If McGonagall ever asked, the shoe that went through the window directly where Dean’s head should have been—had he not had the audacity to duck—was a complete freak accident that no-one could explain. 

But finally, as they managed to shove their feet into some converse, and miraculously unearthed a fairly decent jacket, they were ready, barely waiting long enough to hear the chorus of ‘Good luck’ that their friends offered before flying out of the dorm and racing through the castle as fast as they could. They  _ had  _ to get to the entrance doors  _ at least  _ five minutes early,  _ and  _ make it look like they’d been there for longer.

Just— _ literally _ just—as the second hand showed five to eleven, Harry arrived, slowing to a casual walk as they chose a pillar to lean against, and desperately tried to calm the racing of their heart. As butterflies that had absolutely nothing to do with the fear of being late invaded their stomach, Harry cursed, swallowing hard.

_ ‘It’s just Draco,’  _ they told themselves.  _ ‘You talk all the time, calm down, you idiot.’  _ But, as they managed to recover from the run, the stitch in their side finally ebbing, and a familiar head of blond hair approached, Harry’s heart pounded ever harder, practically trembling on the spot. 

“Scarhead,” Draco greeted them, his easy smirk sending tingles down their spine. 

“H—hh—hi,” Harry stammered, fighting the flaming of their cheeks.  _ ‘Smooth, Harry, really smooth...’  _

But Draco’s eyes merely twinkled, lips twitching slightly as he gestured to the door, and if Harry didn’t know better, they’d have said Draco’s stiff shoulders relaxed, just a little, as he did so.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s go,” they managed, gulping in a deep breath as they walked out into the cool October morning.

For a moment, aside from the crunch of their shoes on gravel and the chirping of the birds, there was silence. No matter how hard they tried, Harry’s mind was too busy buzzing with a stupid running commentary on how hard their heart was pounding in their chest, how difficult it was to breathe, how they should just  _ Calm. the Fuck. Down.  _ to be able to come up with any decent topics of conversation. But as they neared the edge of the grounds, the weight of the silence becoming almost unbearable, convincing Harry this would be the worst date in the history of the world because they couldn’t bloody talk to one another, thankfully, Draco spoke.

“I see you managed to dress yourself in a somewhat acceptable outfit.” He shot another smirk their way. 

Instantly, Dean’s words ran through Harry’s mind, and though nerves still fluttered violently in their chest, they couldn’t help but grin.

“I’ve been told my jeans cup my arse something lovely,” they murmured, catching the flush that crept down Draco’s neck before he could school his features into one of practised disbelief. “And that you’ve checked me out in them before...”

“That I’ve—why would—you—” Draco spluttered as Harry giggled. 

“So eloquent, Draco,” they teased. Immediately, indignant, outraged eyes rounded on them, so furious—so mortally offended—that Harry couldn’t help but burst out laughing, every flutter of nerves suddenly flying away as Draco drew himself up to his full height.

“Impertinence, Potter!” he squawked as Harry’s laughter echoed around them. “Merlin, the audacity! The insubordination! The  _ incivility  _ of some people! Why I’ve never been so wounded in all my life! And after I decided to pay for your butterbeer, as well!”

“Aww,” Harry chuckled, stomach flipping ever so slightly, “were you going to spoil me?”

“Not if you make stupid comments like that, Potter, no!” the twat huffed, shivering in disgust as Harry laughed again. “Besides, I never  _ spoil  _ anyone,” he sniffed. “I could never spoil  _ you _ , Potter, you’d—”

“Because I’m perfect just the way I am?” Harry grinned, ever the picture of innocence. Draco glared venomously.

“Because you’d never fit your head through a door ever again!”

As Draco’s nostrils flared slightly, and he pointedly fixed those exasperated eyes on them, Harry could only throw their head back, bursting into laughter once again. And when they bumped shoulders with the idiot, and Draco finally failed to keep the beautiful smile off his face, his own giggles suddenly bubbling forth, Harry’s heart soared. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst date after all…

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Potter,” Draco chuckled a few minutes later when they’d both calmed down enough to speak, though stray giggles and chuckles still jumped merrily from them every now and then. “You’re such a wanker.”

“And you love it,” Harry grinned without missing a beat.

“Ha! You wish, Scarhead!” But when Draco’s fingers ‘accidentally’ brushed theirs, and another dazzling smile lit his face, Harry’s heart did somersaults. 

As the small town of Hogsmeade drew rapidly nearer—the journey seeming to not last as long, somehow—the conversation turned to what shops they wanted to go into, what sweets and treats they wanted, and of course, whether either of them had any plans for Christmas just yet, as all too soon, the festive season would be upon them. Every now and then, their hands would bump, or their shoulders would touch, or sometimes, Draco’s hand would appear on Harry’s arm, their back, as he laughed at one of Harry’s jokes, or tried to point something out as they began walking through the town. And every time, Harry’s heart leapt in their chest, breath catching as they simply stared at the place Draco had touched, or smiled at his excited expression. They honestly didn’t know how they hadn’t noticed before just how beautiful Draco really was. 

If Draco ever caught them staring, he never said. So, as they worked their way around the shops, being careful to leave The Three Broomsticks for last, for once, Harry just let themselves look, resolutely ignoring the urge to wonder how long he’d have to endure Ron’s teasing. 

They’d just purchased their goods from Honeydukes—including a month’s supply of Drewballs for Ron—when Draco paused, eyes settling on a new building. It looked like a kind of apothecary from the outside, with shelf after shelf of tiny bottles visible through the window, each a different shape and colour. But it was newer, somehow; more stylish. And as curiosity sparked in Draco’s eyes, Harry gestured over to it.

“We can go in if you like,” Harry said, happily sucking on a lollipop. 

“Hm, maybe just to look around…” Draco considered, already wandering over.

The moment they stepped inside, gentle perfume filled Harry’s nose, sweet and light and distinctly feminine, and immediately, they felt out of place. In the next second, their eyes fell upon the merchandise, realising with a shock that the shelves weren’t stacked with medicine, but hundreds and hundreds of bottles of makeup. Liquids to match every skin tone stood directly to their left, as nail varnish every shade of the rainbow stood proudly to their right. Lipsticks and lip glosses dazzled in the next aisle, shades ranging from white to black, and thousands of eyeshadows in hundreds of different palettes waited to be used in the one after that. As Harry simply stared, an odd sensation settling in their stomach, Draco cooed appreciatively, happily starting to wander the aisles, picking up a few bottles here and there.

“Er, Draco?” Harry whispered, rushing to catch up as the owner’s eyes rested on them. 

“Yes, Scarhead?” he replied, carefully examining a tiny box of bronzer—whatever the hell that was.

“Are we—um, I mean, er—are we supposed to be in here?” they hissed, eyes widening as the words ‘lip plumping’ caught their attention.

“Of course we’re meant to be in here, Potter,” Draco said far too loudly for Harry’s liking. “It’s a shop. We’re customers. Shops need customers. Ergo, we’re supposed to be here.”

“Yes, I know  _ that,”  _ they sighed, hastily avoiding the row of eyeshadow as their stomach did another odd flip. “But isn’t this stuff for, well,  _ girls?”  _

Slowly, mischievous eyes glinted at them, a smile that hid a thousand secrets lifting Draco’s lips.

“Only if you’re chicken, Potter.”

Harry blinked, lost in the challenge of Draco’s eyes as suddenly the odd sensation returned, slightly stronger this time, before suddenly pale fingers were wrapping themselves around Harry’s wrist, pulling them back around the shop.

“Draco, what are you—?”

“Shh, Potter,” the git interrupted, stopping short by the lipsticks once more. 

“But don’t we—”

“Do you  _ ever  _ do as you're told?” Draco sighed, whipping out a few different sticks of the stuff, all labelled ‘Tester’. 

“No,” they said, smiling as Draco rolled his eyes once more. But when he suddenly muttered a swift disinfectant incantation, and brought a stick to his lips with a triumphant ‘aha!’, Harry’s mouth hit the floor.

As Harry watched, Draco swiftly and expertly swept a lipstick over his lips, contorting them into different shapes to get the best application before finally pressing them together and turning back to them a moment later. Immediately, Harry’s mouth ran dry.

“What do you think?” he asked. 

Where pale, pale pink skin usually sat, now soft maroon lips smiled, just slightly thicker than normal, and more delicate, more sensitive somehow. Though it was obvious he was wearing it, the shade was so gentle, so well chosen, that it complemented rather than clashed with his skin tone, drawing Harry in, begging to be touched; kissed. And as Draco stood waiting, a hint of apprehension betraying the confident lift of his chin, words once again failing them in favour of openly staring, Harry finally realised two things.

One: they  _ definitely  _ fancied Draco Malfoy, Prick-Almighty.

Two: they needed makeup in their life.

Of their own accord, Harry’s hands clutched at Draco’s, still unable—and unwilling—to look away from his gorgeous face.

“Teach me,” they blurted.

As relief and amusement glinted in Draco’s eyes, those gorgeous lips stretched into a cocky smirk, and Harry didn’t know whether to smile or huff at the infuriating idiot. 

“Teach you what, Potter? There’s an awful lot you don’t know—how to tame the wild beast of an animal that is your hair, for example—so I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know what I want,” they barely breathed, settling for the third option of drooling as Draco’s eyes danced. “Teach me how to do makeup.”

“Manners, Potter,” the bastard sniggered softly, voice dropping so that it was hardly above a whisper. “What’s the magic word?” 

“ _ Please?”  _

It was barely breathed, barely audible even in the deserted, silent shop, but somehow, it was the loudest, most powerful thing Harry had ever said. And as they stared, hands still clutching Draco’s, every thump of their heartbeat practically deafening them, fireworks exploded in their chest as Draco grinned.

“Let’s go shopping, Scarhead.”

*

“Sit,” Draco ordered.

They were back in the castle, far earlier than either of them had planned, stomachs empty, and having not had a single butterbeer. But as Draco emptied the bag of makeup onto the bed beside Harry, that didn’t matter one bit. 

“Bossy,” they grinned, eagerly throwing themselves down onto the bed nevertheless, giggling at Draco’s mock offense.

“Is that a complaint, Scarhead? Do you really want my help after all?”

“No, no! No complaints!” Harry quickly gushed. “I promise!”

“Hmm, a likely story.” Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously, drawing another giggle from Harry before suddenly straightening. 

“Well, first thing’s first, Potter, if you really do want my help, you need to sit there and keep quiet. I can’t work with you blathering on,” he said briskly, setting about organising the pile of makeup. “I know that keeping that trap of yours closed is a feat you struggle with daily, but you’re just going to have to try—ababa!” A pale finger was pressed to their lips as Harry opened their mouth protest. “Starting now, Potter!” But as Draco’s eyebrows almost disappeared off his face indignantly, Harry couldn’t help but burst out laughing. 

_ Much  _ to Draco’s displeasure, of course.

“You can’t—” Harry gasped, clutching their stomach, another burst of laughter bubbling up their throat as Draco rested his hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently. “You can’t tell me to shut up, then look at me like that! You looked ridiculous!”

Collapsing into giggles again as outrage flew over Draco’s face, Harry prepared themselves for Draco to threaten to throw them out, or curse them for being so insolent, or just outright refuse to help them at all. But instead, Draco simply sighed dramatically, looking for all the world like he needed a feather boa to fling dramatically around his neck, as he sank onto an adjacent bed heavily.

“Oh, where did my power go?” he lamented as Harry howled with laughter again. “Why does no-one respect me? How cruel this life is!”

“Stop it, you prat!” Harry exclaimed between laughs. “I can’t breathe!” But of course, Draco didn’t stop.

“How did I end up here?” he sighed, bringing the back of his wrist to his forehead again. “I tried so hard, and for what? For this? Ugh.” He shuddered, failing to hide the twitch of his lips as Harry gasped for breath. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Harry managed eventually, grinning all the wider as Draco allowed a small, genuine smile onto his face. 

“An idiot who knows how to do makeup,” he reminded them, eyes twinkling. Immediately, excitement flooded through them once more.

“Yeah,” they murmured, biting their lip in anticipation. With a final twinkle of silver eyes and a fond shake of the head, Draco approached again. 

“So Scarhead,” he smiled, “what do you want me to do?”

Heart racing, barely breathing, Harry swallowed, before whispering, “Everything.” 

Grinning, Draco whipped out some cotton pads and a liquid potion marked as cleanser. 

“Your wish is my command.”

Gentle, sensitive hands cupped their face, removed their glasses, and stroked back their hair from their forehead as Harry’s breath hitched, fireworks exploding with every touch, every caress of Draco’s fingers. 

“Keep breathing, Scarhead,” Draco huffed a laugh, warm breath ruffling Harry’s hair slightly as he gradually swept the pad over every inch of their face. “We can’t show you off to your adoring public if you pass out from lack of oxygen, now, can we?”

“Fuck ‘em,” Harry grinned, earning themselves another chuckle that had warmth pooling in their chest. “Just—”

“Don’t tell them you said that,” Draco finished for them, the smile in his voice audible. “I know, Scarhead.” 

The hand in their hair gently moved, nails dragging along their scalp before coming to rest on their chin, and Harry practically preened as tingles shivered down their spine. Unable to resist the urge to let their eyes flutter open, they smiled as a pale, Draco-shaped blur floated in front of them. Even like that, he was gorgeous. And as more small chuckles came from Draco’s lips—as precious as liquid gold to Harry’s ears—Draco’s calm explanations of what he was doing and why were more and more difficult to focus on. 

Gently, efficiently, Draco worked, Harry’s face feeling odd as product after product was brushed, dabbed, and dusted onto it. But no matter how heavy, or sticky, or just plain weird it felt to have makeup on their skin, Harry found themselves loving every second of it. As Draco gave them orders about what faces to pull and made smart-arsed comments about the hilarious result, or squawked at their complete inability to blink at the right time, Harry burst out laughing. As each click and clack of makeup bottles reached them, excitement shot through Harry’s chest. And as a gentle hand tilted their chin upwards, sending tingles down their spine, Harry sank happily into Draco’s hands, relishing the feeling of the brush on their skin, and the tender care Draco took with them. 

Finally, though, after much laughter, hundreds of insults, and a good few experiments, they reached the final stage: applying the lipstick.

“Can I put my glasses back on, yet?” Harry whined as another soft ‘pop’ of a lid being replaced reached their ears. 

“No, Potter, shush.” The image of Draco’s frown formed perfectly in Harry’s mind’s eye.

“But I hate not being able to see!” they pouted. 

“Well if you shut up, you’ll get your glasses back faster, won’t you, Scarhead? I can’t put the finishing touches on with you blathering on now, can I?”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled, giving one last sigh before finally behaving themselves.

“Okay, do you remember the face I made to put my lipstick on?”—Harry nodded—”Good. I need you to do that.  _ Excellent.  _ Now just hold still. If this goes all over your face because you couldn’t keep quiet, I won’t be helping you fix it, alright?”

With a final huff of laughter, Harry nodded, barely stifling the hum of pleasure that lodged itself in the back of their throat as Draco’s fingers gently rested on their chin for balance once again. As the soft stick deftly ran over their lips, catching every corner, every curve, Harry barely breathed, revelling in the sensation of Draco’s breath caressing their cheeks. 

“Now press your lips together like I did,” the soft voice murmured, as hands left Harry’s face all too soon. “That’s it.”

As their lips stuck together ever so slightly, and a newfound awareness of just how much saliva a mouth could produce hit Harry, they waited, listening for Draco’s next instruction, next comment.

But none came.

“Draco?” they murmured, obediently keeping their eyes closed lest they be scolded again. “Is it okay? Are we finished?” 

Still, there was silence. 

As Harry searched for the warmth of Draco’s body, reassuring themselves that the idiot hadn’t snuck off somewhere unnoticed, a soft frown formed above their newly decorated eyes.

“Draco?” they said again. “What’s going on?” Then, when no reply came, “If you don’t answer I’m going to open my eyes whether you like it or not—Mmpf!”

Suddenly, heat—demanding and overwhelming—consumed Harry’s lips, as soft, tender hands cupped their face—just for a moment—before once again, they disappeared, leaving Harry leaning forward on the bed, desperate to follow them. As Harry’s eyes flew open, finding the blurred outline of Draco sat back on his heels, stiff as a poker, and every nerve in their body screamed out a feral plea for more, Harry actually heard Draco holding his breath.

They paused for all of a second, processing the last few moments just long enough to establish that their mind wasn’t playing tricks on them, before they were moving. Hands reached for shoulders, for necks, for hair, softly, gently sliding along, up, and through, savouring the warmth of another’s skin beneath theirs. Noses bumped as breath mingled, exhaled too fast as excitement, hunger, and giddy joy swept through them. And voices moaned, heat meeting heat, wet meeting wet, fire meeting fire. As teeth nipped, and lips sucked, electricity flooded every fibre of Harry’s being.

An ache in their lungs broke them apart—reluctantly, and with much clutching at clothes—of hair—as if to reassure them that they weren’t going to disappear the moment they drew back. But as silver eyes bored into theirs, close enough to recognise the same apprehension, need, and ecstasy coursing through Harry’s veins, they leaned back in almost immediately. Only once that worry, that desperation had been worn down by caress after caress of their lips, did they finally draw apart properly, Harry resting their forehead on Draco’s as a breathless laugh bubbled gently from their lips. 

“Does this mean we’re officially an item?” Harry whispered after a while, drowning in Draco’s soft, heavenly scent.

“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” Draco grinned, fingers still gently cupping Harry’s face. As happiness spiralled through them once more, Harry snickered.

“Idiot,” they grinned, heart dancing in their chest.

“Pillock,” Draco replied.

“Wanker,” they fought back a laugh.

“Cretin,” Draco smirked.

“Asshole!” they exclaimed.

“Bastard!” Draco sniggered.

Unable to resist any longer, Harry dissolved into soft giggles once more, happily pulling a silently laughing Draco closer until he was leaning with his back against the bed with Harry’s head on his shoulder. 

“Merlin… What have you turned me into, Scarhead?” he whispered, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair. “A ruddy Hufflepuff, that’s what I am. How dare you.”

But as Harry poked the git in the stomach, drawing another huff of laughter from him, Harry wondered just how their feud with Malfoy had ever come to this—not that they were complaining of course. If their 11-year-old self could see them now...

“Potter?” Draco interrupted their musings sometime later. 

“Mm?”

“Do you have any idea how people will react to this?” he murmured, fingers gently rubbing circles on the back of Harry’s hand. “You weren’t ready to talk about gender with the public because of the pressure they could put on you.” He paused as Harry stiffened. “Dating an ex-Death Eater could cause quite a stir. I’d understand if you didn’t want to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Harry warned, entire world threatening to crumble at the thought of ending a relationship with Draco—the idiot they’d been slowly falling for since the beginning of the year, the one who’d encouraged them to talk to their friends when needed, helped them discover pronouns they were comfortable with, and who made them feel like they were flying  _ all the time _ —purely because of small-minded people.

“But it’s a big thing, and—”

“I don’t care,” Harry interrupted, sitting up and finally summoning their damn glasses to stare Draco down. 

“I don’t know a lot of things right now, but what I do know is, right now, you make me happy, which is more than they do. I’m not going to let them destroy that,” they said, jaw set as silver eyes examined theirs. After a moment’s pause, Draco nodded.

“So what do we do?” he asked, pulling slightly on Harry’s shoulder so that they relaxed back against him once more.

“I don’t know,” Harry sighed. “I need to figure that out—just like I need to figure out a lot of things, really.” As an idea slowly formed, they frowned. 

“Would… Would you be alright to wait to make this public?” they asked quietly. “I don’t know how long it could take me, and I’d love to be able to go to Hogsmeade and hold your hand and stuff but—” they sighed. “I just don’t know if I could take the attention right now, and we’ve only kissed once and hardly have things figured out. I mean,” they laughed suddenly. “I didn’t even know we were flirting until you asked me out!” They paused to grin as Draco chuckled too. “I know it’s a lot to ask but could we—?”

“Scarhead,” Draco interrupted, tilting their chin so they could meet his eyes. “As long as I get to do this—” he kissed Harry softly, deeply, making their head spin “—every once in a while? Waiting is fine by me—and before you get all sappy, that’s  _ not  _ because I’m some kind of doting Hufflepuff, it’s because I hardly want more of the bloody vulture’s attention either, alright?”

As laughter suddenly bubbled again in their throat, and another set of fireworks exploded before Harry’s very eyes, blinding pleasure racing through them once more, Harry simply tugged Draco towards them, recapturing Draco’s lips with theirs in a thank you, a promise, and a simple act of self-indulgence. The feeling of Draco’s lips smiling against theirs made breathing  _ so  _ much more difficult.

“I think I’m okay with that,” they murmured, pulling back slightly to drown, once more, in those incredible eyes.

“Then I suppose I can put up with it too,” Draco smirked. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you ready?” Draco murmured, breath hot and soft in Harry’s ear, making them shiver closer in his embrace. 

They paused, biting down hard on their bottom lip as butterflies trembled through every inch of their chest, their stomach. As Ron and Hermione stood waiting a few metres away, they swallowed, memories of the last six months hurtling through their mind. 

Memories of the fear of the unknown, the doubt, and the overwhelming pressure to open up Pandora’s box that no-one else put on them but Harry themselves. Memories of the sweet, soft, exciting beginning of their relationship with Draco, with the added thrill of sneaking around the castle, slowly exploring each other’s boundaries, each others bodies, until finally they crashed together, explosively claiming each other for their own once and for all. And memories of all their friends accidentally misgendering them less and less, and the terror of research slowly fading, as they realised this wasn’t going to change, this was who they were. Memories of finally wandering into the library, nervous but ready, and finding a whole new world—a whole new language they had to learn—that somehow wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as they’d expected it to be. Memories of their heart racing—no, jumping, fluttering, and singing—in excitement, in curiosity, in sheer happiness as it all made sense. Memories of flying through the castle with the biggest grin on their face, desperate to tell Draco, Ron, and Hermione, and being crushed into the most bone-breaking group hug they’d ever experienced.

Memories that brought them to this moment.

“As I’ll ever be,” they smiled, taking a shaky breath and glancing at their boyfriend’s face quickly. “Are you?”

“To finally get to kiss you in front of everyone and openly glare when idiots try and flirt with you?” he raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Potter.”

And though a glimmer of apprehension still remained in his eyes, after a moment Harry nodded, taking a final breath before turning to his best friends. 

“Okay,” they said, thanking the powers that be that their voice didn’t shake. “Let’s go.”

“We’re right behind you, mate,” Ron said, unwavering determination glinting fiercely in his eyes as they walked to the door.

“Absolutely,” Hermione nodded, squeezing their shoulder one last time. “And remember everyone else will be there for you too.”

“I know,” they smiled, pausing for the last moment, their hand on the door handle. “Thanks guys. You know I couldn’t do this without you, right?”

As three sets of eyes all glimmered back at them, their pride and excitement quickening Harry’s heartbeat and reassuring them once and for all that with their incredible friends by their side, they could do anything, they took one last deep breath and finally opened the door. 

As camera flashes and a chorus of unruly shouts immediately threatened to overwhelm them, a warm hand squeezed theirs, whilst a pale finger pointed at something above them. Lifting their eyes and to find a banner overhead, calm immediately soothed their nerves, the knowledge that no matter how stressful, how overwhelming, or how utterly terrifying it felt now, this was absolutely the right thing to do. Managing a genuine smile, Harry took their seat on the podium, excited for the first time in their life to give an interview, knowing the headline tomorrow would read  _ Introducing Harry Potter the Non-binary Saviour: The Boy Who Lived (To Not Be a Boy)  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! :D <3


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